


Once We're Kings

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Slow Burn, cheerfully anachronistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-10-11 19:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 87,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10472868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: Their kingdoms have been at odds for centuries, so what will be a greater 'fuck you' than to send hapless knight Grantaire as their representative for Prince Enjolras's queen choosing ceremony before he is crowned King?Grantaire disagrees, but he doesn't seem to get much of a say in the matter.No one is really expecting anything to come of it, but trust Enjolras to defy expectations.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the amalgamation of what I know of medieval times given a Medieval Literature class in university, Game of Thrones, and various movies akin to Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Pretty much everything is extremely inaccurate and anachronistic and I am completely fine with that. 
> 
> All of the country names are currency types because it started as borrowing from Princess Bride and ended as a way to not have to come up with my own names for things.

Grantaire's become somewhat of a master of selected attention over the years due to this exact situation. That given, he’s using his well-honed abilities to deafen his ears and use his eyes only for counting how many ceiling tiles there are in the small council chamber, and he’s up to two hundred and nineteen squares when he registers that there’s been an odd silence going on for just a moment too long.

He lets his gaze fall down from the ceiling back to the meeting at hand, and promptly startles to see all members of the small council staring at him, looking almost as done with him as he has been with them for the past two years.

“What?”

“Have you not heard a word we’ve said in the past hour?” The Hand of the King asks.

“Yes,” Grantaire replies, because he has, despite his best effort to tune them all out. “Just nothing in the past, say, ten minutes.”

“We were discussing Florin’s oncoming engagement ceremony.”

Grantaire isn’t so deaf to all political talk that he doesn’t know what that is, or why they’re all so interested in the subject.

“The young prince did hold out longer than anyone else, give him his due credit,” Grantaire says, sitting up straight for the first time in probably an hour. He winces when his back cracks. “Can’t really wait any longer if they want time to send out the invitations and—”

“Yes.” the Hand waves his hand impatiently. “But it’s come time for him to wed. They are insisting we send an eligible mate to the ceremony, so he can at last choose his queen.”

“Right.” Grantaire nods. He can’t help his blank look at all their annoyed faces. “Sorry, is this supposed to be surprising? This has been the tradition for like, what, a thousand years?”

“It’s a disgrace,” a man shouts, slamming his hand on the table.

“Ah man, you knocked the grapes off the table,” Grantaire complains. The man, who Grantaire doesn’t even know the name of despite the fact they’ve been on the same small council for over a year, glowers at him.

“Florin want us to send our most promising and favorable maiden so the young prince can choose her as his bride, and have a trophy from our country, converting her into their ridiculous culture? They think we will agree to this madness?”

“He might not choose her,” Grantaire points out. “After all, those girls from Shilling aren’t anything to scoff at, with all their waterfalls they’re constantly bathing in.” At the scathing, exasperated looks he receives in return, Grantaire doubts this was the proper response.

“They want to make a mockery of us,” the Hand says. “Forcing us to send our best and brightest to their country, our prize gem—”

“Doubt the girls want to be called prizes,” Grantaire interjects, and is subsequently completely ignored.

“—Just so they can parade her around on that reprehensible, pompous ass Prince Enjolras’ arm, turning her into one of them, right before our eyes.”

“Yes, Florin is terrible, the bane of the everyone’s existence. Why did you regain my attention again?”

“Because we need to do something about it,” the same, stout man shouts. Grantaire’s starting to wonder if he has anger management problems, which is fairly confirmed when he slams the table again, the force of it vibrating the table and spilling some of Grantaire’s wine onto his hand. “And you’re the only council member who has not contributed an idea.”

“Let me see the invitation.” The scroll is passed down to his end of the long table, and Grantaire carefully opens it, scanning its script. It’s fairly basic and genial, mentioning that now that Prince Enjolras is a year from coming of age, and as he must marry before this occurs, they are holding a ball for him to meet all the eligible maidens from each country in the Northern and Western lands.

Grantaire has to roll his eyes at the section that says every maiden from each country has a fair shot to be chosen as queen, like this won’t be a purely political decision.

“Any ideas, Son of—”

“Yes,” Grantaire interrupts. “I do. You think that they are predisposed to pick our maiden, as a political stunt to show us they have the upper hand. We can’t control that. We also can’t ignore the invitation; it’d be a slight that they’d take to war. So the answer is obvious; we manipulate what we can control.”

At their blank stares, Grantaire can’t help but wonder why it is always he who gets the snide remarks about not being intelligent enough to be in the council.

“We send them a bad maiden,” Grantaire explains slowly, enjoying watching the men’s faces turn begrudgingly impressed.

“They have a whole list of requirements, though,” the man to Grantaire’s left says, tapping his fingers in a rhythm just offbeat enough to put Grantaire’s teeth on edge.

“Yes.” Grantaire scans the document. “Must be a highborn. Must be educated no less than fifteen years. Must have court training. Must be proficient in the common tongue. Must be able to read and write. Must be unwed. Must be at least twenty years of age.” Grantaire frowns. “Don’t want much, do they?”

“Only the finest lady in the land. Where are we going to find a disrespectful maiden who also fits all those requirements?”

“I’m sure there’s one,” Grantaire says, throwing his feet up on the table. He reaches for his goblet, his arm just slightly too far away, fingers pushing for it with just enough pressure to accidentally send it crashing to the ground. He swears loudly, and by the time he’s back in his seat, the Hand of the King is staring at him, eyes wide.

“Fuck, what now?” He plops back into his seat.

“Hand me the invitation,” he demands. Grantaire puts as much contempt as he can into handing a piece of paper off to his left, and watches as it makes it way back down to the head of the table. The Hand snatches it back, and quickly scans it. Grantaire does not like the grin that overtakes his face.

“It does not, actually, specify under the requirements that the suitor must be female.”

“Oh no,” Grantaire sighs, putting his head on his hands.

“What would be a bigger ‘fuck you’ than sending a male?” The stout councilman asks at large, and Grantaire really has to tap down the urge to childishly storm out. This opinion is common among the land, but it doesn’t make it any more pleasant on Grantaire’s ears, considering where his inclinations lie.

“And what a good thing that we have a completely disappointing, hapless, embarrassing, but fully trained Knight, who happens to fit all these requirements?”

Grantaire’s mind shifts through all the Knights in his regiment, but he can’t come up with anyone whom the Hand might mean, except for possibly Bossuet, but Grantaire knows that he isn’t a highborn.

“Oh, excellent,” the man to his left breathes. At the heavy, excited look being born into the side of his face, it finally clicks into place.

“Oh you got to be fucking kidding me.” Grantaire pushes back his chair roughly, ignoring the hard sound against the marble. “I’m not a pawn for you to push around. I’m a Knight of the King’s army, and I’m a member of his small council. I am not disposable.”

“But you are,” the Hand says, and even though Grantaire’s despised this man since practically birth, it still feels like a slap in the face. “There’s nothing about you that is special, Grantaire. May I remind you of your failings in the army? Or about your mediocrity in your schooling? Or your complete incapability of demonstrating any class in a social situation? You have no friends, no loves, no family, no ties here. You’re just the village drunkard. The only reason you are in this council is because of your father, bless his soul, and his outstanding contribution to this country. You’re nothing but your name. You’re the perfect fit; right in name, wrong in spirit.”

Grantaire wants to think of a witty response, something that will cut all the men down in a fell, sharp swoop of his tongue, but he’s never been good at that, either – and the fact that this rather proves the Hand’s point doesn’t escape his notice.

“You’re a perfect middle finger. We’re respecting their wishes, but it’s still an abomination.”

“Careful men, or I’ll get my feelings hurt,” Grantaire quips, and he’s impressed that his voice actually sounds light and airy, because his chest feels anything but.

“It’s settled then.” The Hand claps his hands. “You will depart in a fortnight.”

“You’re just going to uproot me from my homeland, with no regards to my feelings or say in the matter?”

“Most likely it will only be for a month. You really think he’d pick a man?”

“Have I no say in my future?”

“Fortunately for us all, I am the Hand, not you. And if I say you go, you go. You may choose one Knight for protection and one manservant for your travels. Pack your bags, Grantaire.”

* * *

Grantaire’s leaning up against the doorframe of his bedchamber, bemusedly watching Joly angrily flutter around his room, throwing his belongings into bags.

“They just send you away, like you’re no more than a prize pig.”

“Can I help you at all, Joly?”

“No,” he snaps. “I’m your manservant; this is my job.”

“Okay, just wondering, since you’re kind of throwing everything into a massive pile, and I think you might have just broken my favorite mead mug.”

Joly turns and blinks at the shattered pieces of clay on top of a small mountain of undergarments. Grantaire thinks he might apologize, but instead Joly just starts pacing angrily again, muttering under his breath.

“It’s okay, Joly. Think of it as a few week adventure. At least I get out of this hell.” The sad part is, he’s barely even exaggerating. “No small council meetings. It’ll be practically heaven.”

“It’s not the fact we’re going somewhere that has me angry,” Joly snaps, like Grantaire didn’t know that. “It’s the implication that you’re someone who’d be an embarrassment for Florin to pick.”

“Not really an implication, more of a stated fact,” Grantaire points out, and quickly holds his hands up in surrender at Joly’s glare.

“It’s stupid.” Joly’s rolling up Grantaire’s bedsheet, with no finesse, grace, or care, and he’s probably technically one of the worst manservants in the country, but at this moment, like most others, Grantaire fiercely adores him. “You’re highborn, educated, and trained. You’re in the godsdarn army. What more could they ask of you?”

He feels his entire chest warm with the indignation on his behalf.

“To be fair, it’ll probably piss Florin off.”

“Maybe not,” Joly says, in a tone that has Grantaire looking back up to scan his face.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard things about this Prince,” Joly says, slowly and carefully, like he always does when he has important information.

“So have I,” Grantaire responds, because he’s basically the only topic of interest at small council meetings, and there’s only so much you can block out by laying your ear on your hand. “He’s apparently very young, hotheaded, angry, boastful, and arrogant.”

“I’ve heard similar accounts.” Joly turns, putting the sheet into a bag. “And contradictory accounts.”

“And what are these differing accounts saying about the young King to be?”

“That he wants a different world,” Joly says, in a tone serious enough to make Grantaire frown. “A better one. And that he’s willing to dismantle and rebuild everything to get it.”

“Sounds optimistic.”

“Sounds needed.”

“Many have tried, and many have failed.”

“None have been Prince Enjolras,” Joly says. He shoots Grantaire a little smile. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“I suppose we will.” He throws an arm around Joly, hugging the tiny man close. “How long are you packing for?”

“It’s a two week journey by horse,” Joly says thoughtfully. “And we should arrive the night before the ball.” He looks around the room. “So, I guess, everything?”

* * *

“Ah, fucking hell,” Grantaire mutters after what is probably the seventh tree branch hits him on the face. His horse is unbelievably patient with him, gracefully putting up with the constant accidental feet to his stomach at every uneven part of the road. Grantaire’s starting to love this horse a little, and he’s halfway through composing a poem about its ears when Bossuet interrupts his thoughts from behind.

“Grantaire, let me take the lead.”

Grantaire pulls his horse to a stop. “Why?”

“Because you’re technically a highborn, and I’m letting you get hit in the face with branches. It’s my duty as a sworn Knight of the King’s Guard—”

“Which I am too, you oaf, you don’t need to walk in front of me.” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Let me get back to this sonnet about this horse’s ears. ‘I watch the ears of my horse flutter round/twitching out flies like a King’s steed would do—”

“Pretty sure that’s a mare, not a steed,” Joly calls from behind. Grantaire frowns, turning around in his saddle.

“Are you sure?”

Joly’s eyes flicker down, then back up.

“Pretty darn,” he replies.

Grantaire reaches down, and pats the horse on its grey neck. “I still love you the same.” He really should think of a name beyond ‘Horse’; it kind of kills the vibe of his endless devotion.

“I shouldn’t let anything harm you, my Lord—”

“Fuck,” Grantaire says, unable not to. “Don’t call me that. You know not to do that.”

“Sorry, R.” Bossuet sighs. “I just want to do well. This is my first trip outside of the castle walls I’ve been entrusted with.”

Grantaire neglected to tell him that he specifically requested Bossuet for this trip, despite many protests for him to choose someone more qualified. He wanted the company, and it doesn’t seem like it’d benefit anything for him to mention it now.

“I see no need for you to proceed me, Bossuet, but if you want to, feel free.” Grantaire gestures ahead of him, and Bossuet broadly grins as he trots in the lead. He then promptly hits his head on a tree branch, which has Grantaire rolling his eyes.

“There’s a branch there,” Bossuet calls back.

“Thanks, buddy,” he calls back, and gives Joly a small smile before kicking his horse back in motion.

* * *

It’s been thirteen days of straight wilderness, and Grantaire’s never felt more at peace in his life, which is why he’s a bit surprised when Joly calls out from behind him.

“I don’t understand why you like this so much.”

Grantaire spins around in the saddle, frowning.

“What?”

“Why you like the outdoors. I don’t understand it. There’s so much dirt, and trees, and a bug just flew in my ear, Grantaire, I can still feel its wings batting against the hole—”

“There’s no people around,” Grantaire says, and he firmly feels that this is Point Number One in nature’s favor.

“There’s also no walls or roofs.”

“Right. There’s the sky.”

“Fuck the sky,” Joly says, ducking out of the way of a tree branch. “The sky contains rain. The sky contains bugs. The sky contains wind. A hut contains a bed. A hut—”

“Outside is pure in a way that human innovation will never be,” Grantaire interrupts. “Even if we never existed, and even if we die out, the sky will still be there, overhead. People couldn’t exist without the sky, but the sky could exist without the people. Is it really so remarkable that I find that more interesting than a straw hut?”

“What is it with you and the sky?” Bossuet grumbles, barely hearable from ahead of Grantaire. “First it was rhapsodizing about the sun, and now this—”

“The sun,” Grantaire says with feeling. “Is the most important single thing in the entire universe, with no exaggeration.”

“After last night, I’m feeling pretty fond of the moon myself,” Joly says.

He’s referencing the fact that at around four AM, a raccoon had decided to run off with the rest of their food. Joly had awoken, and chased after it for some miles, eventually losing it in underbrush. Then he had to make the long journey back to camp with no light, having only the moon to guide his path. That, and his ridiculously messy trail he had left behind.

“The moon only has purpose because of the sun,” Grantaire counters, and the long strain of poetry he’s about to release is interrupted by Bossuet’s exceptionally loud exclaim of “Holy shit; that’s not a straw hut.”

He’s just made it over the hill, and as Grantaire’s horse steps up top, he is finally able to see above the horizon, where stands the castle of Florin.

“Holy shit, isn’t this place supposed to be a wasteland of degradation and moral decay? The downfall of society?” Grantaire has always thought that Guilder was probably over exaggerating the suckiness of their enemy’s land, but this is far more than he would have expected. It’s like hearing your whole life that something will look like a pigeon only, in the end, to be given a peacock.

“To be fair,” Joly says from his left, also staring up at the colossal castle. “It still could be. All we know is they have superb architects. Maybe all their chef’s are thieves, or something.”

“Stealing all the chickens in the land for their stew,” Grantaire absentmindedly agrees.

“I bet our accommodations are going to be nice,” Bossuet offers, which both Grantaire and Joly both acknowledge with a nod.

“And just think, in that castle may await your future husband,” Joly says, prompting Bossuet’s snickers and Grantaire’s glare.

He could almost picture it, if he let his mind run away with him: a tall man, tall enough that Grantaire can rest his head on his shoulders easily. Maybe brunette, with shortly cropped hair. Nice eyes, dark eyes. A kind smile and an offered hand.

Grantaire snorts, shaking his head at himself. Sometimes it’s better not to let your mind wander.   

 

It takes them another hour or so to ride up to the castle gate. Joly hobbles down awkwardly down from his pony, his robes wrapping around his legs, tripping him. He struggles upright ungracefully, and the gatekeeper eyes him with a look of amusement that Grantaire hopes isn’t cruel.

“We are from the land of Guilder,” Joly proclaims, in that stentor voice that Grantaire had once watched him perfect in front of a mirror for a few hours on a rainy day. “We are guests of his highness, Prince Enjolras.”

He bows low, and then ruffles through his bag, handing over the invitation that bears Enjolras authenticity seal, Grantaire’s name, and Guilder’s King’s signature of approval.

The gatekeeper studies it a moment, before quickly looking back up at Grantaire, his eyes scrutinizing. Grantaire tries not to fidget in his saddle.

“A man?”

“A man,” Bossuet affirms, shifting so his sword is visible. Grantaire stifles a grin.

“I bet Enjolras will love this,” the man laughs. Grantaire spends a few moments too long wondering why the gatekeeper is on first-name terms with the crown prince, let alone knows what Enjolras would find enjoyable. “Take the document back, and you, the suitor,” he says, pointing at Grantaire. “You need to carry it everywhere. You’ll need it.”

“Ah,” Grantaire says, which is apparently enough of an answer, because he swings the gate open. Grantaire takes the paper from his hand as he kicks his horse into a walk.

They walk through the gate into the courtyard, where another man immediately appears by Grantaire’s side.

“Sir,” he says, bowing low. “You are one of the suitors?”

“How’d you know?” Grantaire asks, blankly. The man’s looks up, curly hair bouncing, and he raises his eyebrows.

“The paper in your hand, sir,” and yes, Grantaire is still holding that from a few seconds ago. The man smirks, before trying to hide it swiftly with a smile, one just a little too large for his face, and Grantaire instantly likes him. “I’m here to take your horse, and escort your servants to their chambers.”

“Not really my servants. More my friends who do my laundry and carry a sword.”

“Then I shall escort your friends, sir,” he says. “And I am to take your horse.”

“Great,” Grantaire says, and no one moves for several seconds.

“That means you need to get off her,” the man laughs, apparently giving up all pretense of respect.

“Right,” Grantaire mumbles, and awkwardly dismounts. He gives the horse a long hard pat, which he knows is insufficient for all her hard work getting him there safely. He leans in, and whispers into her ear, “I hope you get a carrot with your dinner tonight. In the meantime, rest well, and dream of handsome stallions.”

He hands the reins over to the stable boy, who grins at him widely, and there’s a chance Grantaire’s whisper wasn’t quite as quiet as he thought.

“You do treat the horses well, right?” Grantaire asks, feeling oddly upset at letting her go.

“I always do, sir,” the boy affirms. “She’ll be in good hands.”

He takes the reins, and then turns to Joly and Bossuet.

“If you two will dismount and follow me, we can take care of the horses quickly, and then I can show you to your chambers.” He turns to Grantaire. “You will go through those front doors, and they’re be someone to greet you. If you need anything having to do with your horse, my name is Courfeyrac, and I’ll be more than happy to assist you.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, smiling. “It’s appreciated.”

“You’re welcome,” Courfeyrac replies, surprised.

“I might have a coin for you, or something.” Grantaire fumbles around in his pockets, and comes out with half a hunk of cheese, a used handkerchief, and a good deal of lint. He’s not sure which one would be least appealing for Courfeyrac.

“Joly?” Grantaire asks, turning to him, a little desperate.

“You gave the bag of coins to me before we started the trip, remember?” Joly rolls his eyes, taking the bag down from his neck. He digs inside, and flips a coin to Courfeyrac, who smiles brightly again.

“I’ll be sure your little lass gets a carrot, just for that.” He winks, making Grantaire blush slightly, and the three of them head off towards the stables. Suddenly Grantaire is acutely aware he is alone in a foreign land, one that is sworn enemies with his own.

Something feels like it’s squeezing his chest, and he stumbles twice making his way to the gate.

* * *

As it turns out, no servant seems to give a shit where Grantaire’s from or what sex he is. He’s ushered through several different rooms, getting tips on how to dance, how to small talk, how to hold pastries like a highborn lady (which, incidentally, was his favorite tutorial of the day, considering he actually got to eat), and other seemingly important tips to gain the Prince’s attention the next evening.

He’s in what he’s been assured is the final room, and it’s been several minutes since his tailor, Fantine, was supposed to arrive. He’s sitting where he was directed, but he’s halfway to convincing himself to go poke around at the décor when an older woman sweeps into the room.

“And you’re my challenge!” Her voice is like honey falling, sweet and slow, and Grantaire gauchely sits up straighter to look her in the eye. She’s beautiful and refined, in that way that can only come from ages in high society.

“I’m already making a reputation for being difficult?” he jokes, standing to greet her. She lets him take her hand and bow low, thankfully remembering his manners for a moment.

“I’ve made hundreds of gowns for these events,” she says. “But never have I made any men’s attire.”

“Is it more difficult than a woman’s gown?” he asks, straightening up.

“No.” She squares his shoulders, and looks him up and down, appraising him. She has a blend of determination and pleasure on her face that’s entirely unfamiliar to Grantaire, and he has to force himself not to stare. “But I am looking forward to the variety this will give me. Spin, please.”

He does, and asks, “So are you going to turn me into a beautiful possible bride?”

“Groom,” she corrects. “I always ask the women what look they are going for. Do you want to emphasize a certain aspect of your body?”

“Don’t think there’s anything on me that emphasizing would be a good thing,” Grantaire responds, not sure what tone to go for.

“What air do you want to give off? Do you want to say you are sophisticated? Intelligent? Cultured? Arty?”

“Well,” Grantaire says, mock seriously. “I would like to look like I wasn’t sent here against my will, hopefully. If you can manage it, maybe even throw in a little, ‘I belong here, and didn’t wander in by mistake.’ I understand if I couldn’t pull that off, though.”

She huffs at him, but her eyes are twinkling.

“I can make that happen.” She pivots on her heel, walking to the end of the room. “I’m going to make you look like royalty.”

It shouldn’t, but it warms him slightly, and he’s smiling goofily down at his shoes when she walks back, fabric in hand.

* * *

The ball is boring, which Grantaire probably should have anticipated, but he didn’t. It’s an event so spectacular and important that it’s anticipated for twenty-five years, and here he is, a man with an invitation, holed up in a corner, leaning up against a wall, alone. He doesn’t know a soul, and people are more interested in shooting him confused looks than actually asking why the hell he is there. He hasn’t moved for a good twenty minutes, and is intermittently picking apart a small plate of food, nursing a goblet of wine, and watching the ladies intermingle and talk, seemingly unconcerned that they’re been paraded to be chosen. It makes him slightly sick to his stomach, so he stares at his shoes, following the stitches with his eyes.

He’s marveling at the detail of Fantine’s work when someone taps him on the shoulder, making him jump and spill wine on his sleeve. Grimacing slightly, he turns to see who frightened him, and promptly startles again.

“Your Highness,” Grantaire says, surprised, bowing low. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Raising his eyes from his bow, he registers bright blond curls, a sharp profile, and fierce, piercing light eyes. Grantaire swallows and involuntarily looks back down at his shoes, which suddenly don’t look quite as regal.

“Are you the suitor from Guilder?” Prince Enjolras asks. Grantaire raises his eyes, and is distracted for a second by the candle behind Enjolras, illuminating a halo around his hair. Grantaire is slightly worried it will catch fire, but he doubts it’s appropriate to manhandle the crown prince to step forward.

It takes him a second to remember the question.

“Yeah, I’m Guildarian. How could you tell? My lack of a tan or my accent?”

“The lack of a hemline. You’re the only male here.”

“Right,” Grantaire mumbles. “That makes more sense.”

“Thank you for coming,” the Prince says, and his voice is charming enough that Grantaire has to scan his face, because nobody is sincere in high society with that warm a tone. He doesn’t get much in return, except a focused stare.

Grantaire decides he’s probably lying, though he can’t find a trace of it in his face. “You could have sent back a decree not allowing me to come, you know.” And he may have, considering that Guilder had sent their reservation with barely enough time to reserve their place at the ball, just to avoid that.

“That’s not what I meant at all.” Enjolras frowns. “I said literally the opposite. Thank you for being here.”

“Okay, Princeo, whatever you say.” He glares at Grantaire, and being on the end of that unswerving attention has Grantaire leaning back against the wall, just for a bit of stability.

“I am glad you’re here,” Prince Enjolras repeats after a moment, like he wants to be sure Grantaire understands. “It’s absurd that it has taken this long for a male to be considered an eligible suitor for another male. This is a landmark day for equality.”

“Not to, uh, bring down your high, Prince man, but they didn’t do it for equality.” Grantaire laughs, a little brittle. “It was pretty much the exact opposite. How can we offend them the most without technically breaking the law? And here I am.” He finishes with a little ‘tada’ gesture, and immediately regrets it, mostly because of Prince Enjolras’ unimpressed look.

“Their motives are irrelevant. You’re here, and you’re a choice for the first time in history. That’s something. You will go down in history.”

“I fucking hope not.” Grantaire snorts. “That’d be embarrassing, for people down the line to have to study me. Aren’t important people supposed to be impressive?”

“Not necessarily,” Prince Enjolras says, a little too pointedly, and Grantaire isn’t entirely if that’s an insult to him or someone else. “I just wanted to thank you for coming and being apart of this progression, even if you apparently had nothing to do with the decision.”

At this, Grantaire frowns, because he actually had quite a lot to do with the decision. Not the male part, admittedly, but that was more not wanting to take part in a mockery of these ideals; a mockery that Prince Enjolras, apparently, thinks is an accolade.

“I’m not opposed to being here. I get to watch everyone dance and enjoy themselves. It’s better than my usual daily routine.”

“It’s despicable,” Enjolras spits, and his slim shoulders tense. “You enjoy watching this?”

“It’s dancing,” Grantaire says helplessly, feeling like he’s lost almost all control of this conversation. Prince Enjolras’ is a lot more intimidating than he rightly should be, given his stature and age. But he still is, and his glare and intensity is doing bizarre things to Grantaire – namely, making him want to go crouch under a table and hide, because he’s fairly positive he’s saying all the wrong things. He’s usually not one to ever want to step down from a conversation, but he’s being forcibly reminded of that time he had to go tell the General of his army that he needed a new sword because he broke his the first week of training.

“It’s not just dancing. It’s rounding up women like cattle for choosing, like they aren’t princesses and duchesses of their respective countries. Like they aren’t worthy of the respect and dignity of being able to choose their own husbands.”

Grantaire stares at him.

“Are you familiar with how countries work?” Grantaire asks after a moment’s pause.

“Yes, of course,” Enjolras responds, voice on the edge of discomfited, and his eyes finally leave Grantaire, looking off to the side slightly, before they go right back on, blue eyes catching brown. “I just don’t think this is how they should operate. These women deserve more.”

“Hear hear,” Grantaire says, raising his goblet. “Fuck the patriarchy, not the women.” The corner of the Prince’s mouth twitches up, making Grantaire’s stomach do an embarrassing victory leap.

“Or fuck the men,” Prince Enjolras says, making Grantaire fumble his glass. “When I’m King, I’ll assure that as well.”

“Then they can rewrite history into me being a huge step forward in social reform, instead of an insult. I’ll look forward to that, my Prince.”

“Enjolras,” he says. “You can call me Enjolras.”

“I’m honored,” Grantaire says, mock joking, because he isn’t sure how to respond. It makes Enjolras frown again, which is about the exact opposite of what he was going for.

“Was that a joke?” Enjolras asks. “I can’t tell.”

“Apparently it wasn’t a good one,” Grantaire mutters.

“It technically is an honor, you know,” Enjolras points out. “Being able to call me by my name without formalities.”

“Would you like me to say it again without the sarcasm?” And shit, he probably should watch his mouth when talking to someone who literally has the power to execute him.

“I think I’ll pass,” Enjolras deadpans. He looks off to the side, shifting his weight, and Grantaire thinks he sees a slight smile.

When Grantaire was fifteen, he had a tutor who asked him to define exactly what distinguishes a ‘man’ from a ‘gentleman.’ In the exercise, he asked him if he had ever met a person who, upon first sight, he knew was in a different class to his own. Not economic, but more socially and personally, with how the man presented himself. Someone enticing, warm, captivating, elegant, interesting, eloquent, and, beyond all else – superior in that indefinable way. Someone with the confidence of knowing it, but none of the snobbishness to make you feel bad about it. His tutor explained it as the experience of walking into a place severely underdressed, and that oh shit response, that feeling of sinking down several inches, hunching in, feeling inadequate, but added with a respect, and a visceral longing to not only be near someone – but be like someone, and it all comes with within moments of the hello.

At that point, Grantaire said some form of response akin to “fuck off.”

Maybe they just don’t make men in Guilder like they do in Florin. Whatever the reason, he finally understands the lesson, and sends a mental apology to poor Jean-Baptiste.

They’ve been standing there in awkward silence as Grantaire tries to figure out what to say, and Enjolras’ just stands there silently, the uncomfortable look slowly settling back into his features.

“Well, I should go mingle, get to know which lady will soon be my wife.” Enjolras says it the same way someone says they have to go to a wedding of a distant relative: no excitement, just a bone deep, annoyed resignation. Enjolras casts a quick glance at the food table, and, though he’ll seriously question his own motives later, it’s enough for Grantaire to make a split second decision to try to keep him there.

“Try the apricot pastries. They’re marvelous. Or the cheese. Or the wine. Or, honestly, even an orange, all your food is delicious here. It must be something in the water, right?” he babbles.

“I have no idea.” Enjolras bites his lip, pausing. “Are the apricot pastries actually good?”

“Yeah, they are,” Grantaire says. He feels like he cheated somehow, getting Enjolras’ attention back with something as stupid as food. “Want one?”

He holds out his plate, and to his great surprise, Enjolras takes one daintily, like he isn’t sure he’s supposed to.

“I haven’t eaten all night,” Enjolras admits. “And I love apricots.”

“Why haven’t you eaten? That’s surely a crime. Isn’t the Prince supposed to be well fed?”

“I’m supposed to talk to everyone. It’s hard to keep nourished when you’re constantly being pulled in a hundred directions.”

“That’s royalty, man. Let me tell you, though, call your tailor, get him to make you large pockets. Stuff food inside them, and secretly eat them during small council meetings. Totally works.”

“You’re on the small council?” Enjolras asks, completely sidestepping the entire topic of pockets, which Grantaire thinks is fair.

“Yeah, of Guilder.”

“Really? You’re so young.”

“My father was the Hand of the King to the last King, and the General of the King’s Guard for like, fifty years. He was also a big scholar and whatnot. It’s tradition that his son will take his place when he dies.”

“How long have you been on it?” Enjolras asks, eyes narrowing.

“Almost two years.”

“So you were on it when Guilder passed the law requiring all citizens to register all animals as members of the household, thus raising farmer’s taxes by hundreds.”

“It was for—”

“I know what it was for,” Enjolras interrupts, tone chilled to ice. “Or did you think no one would notice that Guilder now has a massive new addition to their castle?”

Grantaire’s new bedchambers are in that portion, and he really likes the new renovations, which is something he’s going to keep to himself.

“Your country forced thousands of farmers to sell or butcher their stock, causing an agricultural economic meltdown, and you’re just going to stand here and shrug and tell me it’s all okay because your castle is another fifty feet longer?”

“I never said that,” Grantaire interjects weakly. “It’s not like I agreed to it.” And he most certainly doesn’t remember agreeing to it; he barely remembers it happening at all, actually, because that was the week that the kitchen had stocked a new type of imported wine, and he’d enjoyed it just a bit too much.

“Did you try to stop it?” Enjolras asks, tense and skeptical.

“Don’t remember,” Grantaire says, and he isn’t sure if he’s imagining the slump to Enjolras’ shoulders or not.

“That’s useless,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. “Nothing is going to change with your kind of apathy.”

“Has anything changed with your kind of enthusiasm?” Grantaire asks, and apparently that was a step too far, because he just gets a disappointed look, and Enjolras turns and walks away.

Grantaire watches him go.

 

“It is time for our dance,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire had wondered if this was coming. It’s custom for the Prince to dance with every maiden so they can have a chance to talk and find out of if they’re compatible, like a four minute song will give them chance to discuss how they want to raise children and their ideas on economic and social reform.

Enjolras has been polite and charming when talking to every lady thus far, a stark contrast to how he looks when not making small talk, making his way down the room with an uncomfortable gallantry that’s as confusing as it is enticing. He obviously knows the way he is supposed to act, and seems like he’s caught in a balancing act between propriety for the sake of peace and desperately wanting to leave with only a middle finger in his wake.

At times, it’s funny, like when he gave his arm to a young lady from the West, and then promptly seemed to decide that assuming she needed help was rude, and pulled it away from her sharp enough to make her stumble.

That one had purposefully stepped on his foot several times during the waltz.

Grantaire was unwilling to admit how close an eye he kept trained on Enjolras the entire night, but he couldn’t seem to help it; compared to the rest of the people in the room, he was like a beacon of light, pulsating I’m different, I’m different, I’m different.

He was doubtful he was going to get his rightful turn at a waltz, but it seems Enjolras is bound to societal convention, because he still comes over, even if Grantaire is the last of the night.

“I’m ready,” Grantaire says, standing up from where he was lounging ungracefully on a chair. It’s not like he has anyone to attract here.

“Do you know how to dance?”

“Of course,” Grantaire says, letting himself be led to the middle of the ballroom. “I am a highborn.”

“Do you want to lead?”

“I think you have that covered.”

“If you’re sure,” Enjolras says, stopping him in the middle. He grabs Grantaire’s right hand, and slips an arm around his waist. Grantaire tries not to shift with the contact.

“You ready?”

“Sure,” Grantaire says, voice too high.

And they’re off, parading around the room, going a touch faster than every other couple of the night. Grantaire’s glad he’s had these steps ingrained into this head from birth, because Enjolras is setting a pace that his mind can’t keep up with, though his feet seem understand what to do instinctively.

“We’re not small talking,” Grantaire says, after it’s been a moment too long of silence.

“Haven’t we already done our fill of talking?”

“Nah,” Grantaire says. “I know your opinion on Guildarian agricultural tax deficits, but not on draperies.”

Enjolras looks down at him, startled, eyes wide.

“Draperies?”

“Is that not what you talk about with all the ladies?”

“No,” Enjolras says, sounding confused, which makes Grantaire stifle a grin. Enjolras is still pushing him around the dance floor, despite the fact that, looking forward, he only comes up to about Grantaire’s chin.

“Okay, then. How about the weather today, right? Very, uh, temperate.”

Enjolras looks at him like he’s an idiot, which Grantaire thinks is probably earned.

“Gotta give me something, Princey, I’m not the one who’s done this five dozen times tonight.”

“I usually just ask her name. Sometimes we talk about the music. One lady mentioned her father’s pet iguana. One inquired after my robe maker.”

“I can see why. They’re very, uh, red.” And this is why Grantaire should never speak; his mind never connects fast enough with his mouth.

“They are,” Enjolras says, mouth twitching again. “Which is about all I know of them. I know little about tailoring.”

“They’re working for you.” Grantaire winks, and it’s an entirely unfair account of how the man looks; he’s entirely implausibly handsome, and Grantaire almost is tempted to drop some food on him, just to ruin the whole ‘heavenly mirage’ thing he has going on.

“My father says they make me look effeminate, and thus no one will want to sleep with me.”

“If your father wants someone to be fucked, he can start with himself,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras huffs out a small laugh. “Nothing wrong with looking pretty. Plus, the goal of this isn’t to sleep with any of them, right? Just to fall in love and know immediately you simultaneously want to have all their babies and rule over a hundred thousand people with them?”

“Supposedly,” Enjolras says. They’re still twirling, fast and careful, and Grantaire can hear the decrescendo of the song, meaning it’s coming to an end. Grantaire tightens his hold on Enjolras hand.

“Anybody stick out to be your new Queen?”

“It’s impossible to tell,” Enjolras says. “I only talked to most for five or so minutes.” He frowns. “I think you’re the only one that I conversed with for any length of time.”

“Well color me flattered,” Grantaire says. “I’m special.”

“You’re something,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes, and Grantaire tries not to feel insulted.

“I at least fed you, you know, before it went south. That has to get me some points.”

“It gives the chef points,” Enjolras counters, which is totally unfair. The song has ended and people are clapping, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice, and there’s no way in hell Grantaire’s enlightening him. “You lose points for being on the Guildarian council.”

“Not like I had any more choice in that than the apricots did in becoming a pastry,” Grantaire shoots back, his heart thumping with the easy banter.

Enjolras frowns. “Then why—”

“Your father is coming behind you,” Grantaire interrupts. He can see the foreboding figure coming closer, obviously wanting to break up the all too-long dance with another man.

“I’m not in the mood for his comments,” Enjolras mutters.

“Let’s make him angry, then,” Grantaire says, and immediately knows this is a reckless idea, the kind of stupid that only comes when you blindly want to impress someone. Enjolras stares at him a second, and Grantaire takes the second of confusion to drop Enjolras’ hand, and pick up his other. He quickly guides Enjolras hand onto his waist, and then takes off to the beat, going faster, this time with him leading.

“What was that?” Enjolras asks, sounding amused.

“Thought it might piss him off to see his future King being led around by the resident drunkard of Guilder,” Grantaire says, pushing him faster. The second song is rising in tempo, and Grantaire might be going back home in a day, but this certainly has been a night he’s not going to soon forget. “Wasn’t that what you wanted, pissing him off?”

“Not exactly,” Enjolras says, making Grantaire’s stomach drop. “But it’ll do.”

 

They’re interrupted not two minutes later by Enjolras’ father roughly grabbing Grantaire by the collar, and yanking him forcibly away from Enjolras. He stumbles back several steps, and Grantaire can just see Enjolras’ eyes flash before he turns to his father. He can’t hear the words, but by his tone, Enjolras is pissed, and it doesn’t seem like something he needs to get in the middle of. Quietly, he steps backwards a few paces, before turning, and quickly making his way to the food table.

They still have apricot pastries, and Grantaire puts one in his pocket. Just in case.

 

There’s a loud precession of trumpets, followed by a squire loudly yelling, “May I have your attention, please,” like the cacophony of brass instruments didn’t make everyone already turn around.

Grantaire really hates highborn events.

“It is time for the Prince to pick his wife to be.”

Grantaire turns now, giving the stage his full attention, and firmly presses down on the uncomfortable moving in his stomach, because hope in this situation is completely pointless. He’s not the romanticized underdog hero in some play; he’s the shitty realism version, the guy who’s the underdog and continues to fail, because that’s how most of life actually works.

Enjolras walks up to center stage, eyes bright and surveying. The King walks beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Grantaire doubts anyone misses Enjolras’ scowl.

“My son is will now choose his wife. This is a great honor—”

Grantaire tunes the man out, because he has as much practice blocking out these kinds of men and their way of speaking as he does eating, and only clues his ear back in when he hears Enjolras’ high cadence.

“Father, I can choose any of the available suitors tonight?”

“Yes, Enjolras,” and by the impatience of his voice, Grantaire is guessing it is probably not custom for the Prince to do a questioning before he announces his choice. A choice Grantaire’s probably masochistically too interested in.

“You, in front of your King’s Guard, the members of the High Court and small council, and all the people here, as witnesses, see your verbal oath allowing to marry any suitor here, no matter geographic location or other factors?”

“Yes, Enjolras,” and the impatience is in no way diminishing.

“Okay.” Enjolras nods, and looks back over the crowd. “Then my choice is the suitor of Guilder.”

And Grantaire’s frozen straight in shock, into absolute paralyzation, and all he can do is stare at Enjolras. Despite his distant hope, the possibility of being chosen had never seemed real enough that Grantaire actually imagined how he would respond. Hell, he had already been planning out his week once he arrived back in Guilder.

Distantly, he notices that most people seem confused.

“And who is that?” the King asks. Grantaire isn’t really coherent enough to interpret his face.

“The man there,” Enjolras says, pointing to where Grantaire is sandwiched in between a lady and a hand servant, looking much more undignified than he’d choose if he got a say in this situation, which he clearly doesn’t.

“Absolutely not,” the King bellows, which isn’t a surprise. Grantaire is starting to be able to move again, but his entire chest is still all aflutter, and his limbs feel rather liquidy. “You cannot marry a man.”

“You gave an oath, Father, in front of the High Court, saying you would not prevent a marriage based on geographical location or other factors, and I’d be allowed to marry whatever suitor I wish. You must grant my choice.” Enjolras smirks. “Or, you could admit that this entire ceremony is dated and preposterous, and abolish the law requiring me to marry?”

And Grantaire suddenly understands; this isn’t about him, it is in no way about him. This is a political move, just not one against Guilder; it’s against Florin. The marriage law is ground into their society, and upheld with enough pomp and circumstance that it is anticipated from the birth of a son. It is, of course, wholly ridiculous, but abolishing the marriage ceremony law would give Enjolras the right to rule unmarried. It’s unthinkable in society, and Enjolras has his father caught between a rock of and a hard place of progressive movements – either allow his son to marry a man, or throw out a few century old tradition that defines how the modern monarchy runs.

Grantaire’s suitably impressed - dazzled, almost, but not quite as much as he is disappointed. Apparently he’s not as memorable as he wishes he were.

“Enjolras,” the King says, and stops.

“It is your pick, Father,” Enjolras says, voice full of steel.

The King stays silent a moment, before grinding out, “Bring the man up here.”

Grantaire finds himself being forcibly escorted on stage, where Enjolras grabs his hand, looking fiercely proud of himself.

Grantaire’s probably proud of him too, but he’s trying too actively not to vomit to actual vocalize it. He gives Enjolras a queasy smile, holding his sweaty palm.

“As always, all guests are invited to the wedding. Given the late date of this ceremony, the wedding will take place at the same time as the coronation so our foreign friends do not have to make a second trip. All guests here are welcome to attend. You are excused.”

And at this, Grantaire finds himself being removed from the stage, the King pulling his right arm, and Enjolras’ hand in his left.


	2. Chapter 2

“I should have known you would have pulled something like this,” the King fumes the moment they’ve entered into a private room. The second they’ve stopped walking, Enjolras drops Grantaire’s hand, turning to face off against his father. Grantaire takes a solid step back, away from the confrontation. He flexes his hand.

“There’s no way to get around this,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire can’t help to note the fierce pride he exudes in saying that statement.

“Have you been planning this all along? Have you planning this with Guilder? With him?”

Grantaire takes another step back, trying to hide himself in the shadow of one of the massive bookcases in the room. It seems to be some kind of study, or possibly library, with thick, dark oak tables and chairs, and bookcases surrounding the walls. The lighting is low, only two candles, half melted, and a window on the ceiling.

The sky is dark, but Grantaire can’t make out any stars, only a beam of moonlight falling right in front of his feet.

He doesn’t quite trust himself to be subtle enough to exit through the doors without garnering attention back to himself, despite the way the two other men are hurling words so fast and harsh he doubts they have any idea he’s still in the room.

The room isn’t actually nicer than anything they have in Guilder. It has the same shitty ceiling tiles, and he’s made it to fifty four when hears the King snarl, “This isn’t over,” and stomp to the doors, thrusting them open with enough force that it’s obvious posturing. The oak doors slam back shut, reverberating in the chamber enough that Grantaire can feel his shoes vibrate for a moment. It’s silent, Enjolras is staring angrily at the wall, and it’s creeping towards unbearable.

“So—”

“Can you not talk right now, please?” Enjolras snaps. Grantaire blinks, hurt.

“Sorry, man, for wanting to know what’s going to happen to my life now. I’m sure your argument with your father is much more important than my not knowing my entire future.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says after an uncomfortable pause. He’s still facing the wall, but he’s inclined his head toward Grantaire. “I was inside my own head. Of course this difficult for you.”

“Yeah, marrying you, that’s going to be the worst thing I’ve ever been forced into.”

He means it as a joke, but it makes Enjolras fully turn to him, expression fiercely upset.

“That’s one reason I hate this process. It gives the chosen one no opportunity to say yes or no, it’s just supposed to be implied that they agree since they accepted the invitation. It’s wrong. We’ve given you no say in who you want to marry, and it changes your entire world. It’s wrong.”

“Yep,” Grantaire responds, and gods, who couldn’t admire this man?

“Do you want out of this engagement, Grantaire? Say the word, and I’ll cut you free. I simply thought because of the political ramifications it’d be a wise move, but your life and opinions matter more—”

“It’s fine, Enjolras,” Grantaire interrupts. Enjolras looks surprised, like he honestly thought it’d take more of a fight than that, and Grantaire flounders to cover himself. “Like, I didn’t like home much. Guilder’s always raining. And we don’t have any waterfalls. Couldn’t live my life without seeing all your waterfalls. Not to mention our principal crop is wheat, which is much worse than potatoes.”

Enjolras is looking at him like he thinks he’s an idiot, and Grantaire knows that if he keeps talking he’s going to justify those suspicions, so he quickly snaps his mouth shut with an audible click.

“You’re willing to marry me for potatoes?”

“Potato soup is great,” Grantaire says lamely. “With the big chunks of potato.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says.

With a start, Grantaire realizes that he’s engaged to this young man. He’s literally going to live with him until he dies. He’s going to be around him constantly, learn about him, advise him, care for him, marry him, sleep in his same bed – this is his future, the next sixty years of his life staring him in the eyes, and he’s made their first conversation as a couple about potato soup.

“Fuck,” Grantaire swears, dropping his head into his hand. “I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know anything about Florin. What even happens next? Do I tell Guilder? Do I move here immediately? Do I get my own room?”

“Okay, calm down,” Enjolras says, putting a hand on his shoulder. He sounds tense. “I don’t actually know the answers, but I know someone who does.”

* * *

“Combeferre, this is, uh,” Enjolras halts clumsily, hand flailing in mid-air. “I don’t think I actually caught your name?”

Grantaire snorts.

“You’re an awful fiancé.”

“It’s only been about fifteen minutes. Cut me a little slack.”

“How about you guess?” Grantaire says, unable to stop himself, rocking on the balls of his feet. “I’ll give you a hint: it doesn’t start with Q or X.”

“What about Y?” Enjolras asks, and yes, there’s definite amusement in his eyes.

“My name could be Yorik; you wouldn’t know.”

“Hello, Grantaire,” a voice says, halting the conversation. Grantaire blinks, remembering suddenly that he’s being introduced to someone here. The man’s young, probably around Grantaire’s age, and absurdly tall.

“That was a good guess,” he says, bowing towards the man in hello.

“I read all the invitation responses and provided rooms for every suitor. Yours was rather unique, and male, so it stands to reason I’d remember it.”

“Logical,” Grantaire admits.

“He’s my advisor,” Enjolras pipes back in. “When I take my place as King, he’ll be my Hand.”

“You’re a little young, are you not?”

“But not unqualified,” Combeferre says, and Grantaire has no reason not to believe him. “At very least, I’m one of Enjolras’ closest friends, so I can remind him of mundane details, like his husband’s name.”

“I like you,” Grantaire says, and then blinks. “What is about at this place? I’ve already decided I like three people in space of two days. It’s strange.”

“Who else do you like?” Combeferre asks, lips twitching.

“My tailor, Fantine, and the stable boy, Courf—”

“You’ve met Courfeyrac?” Combeferre interrupts, bouncing on his toes. Grantaire has to blink at the shine in his eyes, at the sudden shift in his demeanor from advising-philosopher to child-with-a-playdate in one second.

“Yes, he was nice. I take it you like him?”

Combeferre colors slightly, stops moving, and apparently finds something behind Grantaire’s head quite fascinating.

“He’s good with the horses,” Combeferre says lamely.

“Moving on.” Enjolras pinches his nose with his forefinger, and Grantaire has to take note that he was quiet through this exchange. “We’ve come here for a reason, Combeferre.”

“I suspect to be debriefed about what happens next.”

Enjolras gives a curt nod.

“This is supposed to be the Hand of the King’s job,” Combeferre says to Grantaire. “But he seemed preoccupied calming down the King the last I saw.”

“I think I’d prefer you anyway,” Grantaire says, which makes Combeferre give him a little grin.

He leads Grantaire over to a small wooden table where they sit across from each other. Enjolras stays standing, looming over Grantaire. He tries not to hunch in too obviously on himself.

“So, I’m sure this is an honor, but also quite the shock. Florin is beautiful, but it will take some getting used to. With time—”

“Can we skip this part and get to where you tell me what happens next?” Grantaire interrupts. He’s had his fill of condescension for a lifetime.

“Sure,” Combeferre says, though he looks surprised. “It is customary for your bedchambers to be on the opposite wing of Enjolras’, to preserve chastity. The room has already been furnished, and your items have already been moved there. We have notified your manservant that you’ve been chosen, and he is to ride back with several King’s Guard and collect the rest of your personal items, which should arrive within a fortnight. A member of the council will be with them, and it will be their job to inform Guilder, as a nation, as well as your family and friends, that you’ve been chosen. I’ll need a list from you on who you want to inform privately.”

“No one,” Grantaire dismisses with a swish of his hand. He can feel Enjolras gaze move sharply to the back of his head.

“No one?” Combeferre asks gently, like he’s trying to be delicate. Grantaire doesn’t know how to say that he really doesn’t need, nor appreciate, delicacy of attitude. “No family members or friends?”

“No, but I do have a question.” He leans forward, and watches Combeferre unconsciously mimic him. “Joly and Bossuet – my manservant and King’s Guard who followed me here – are they to stay with me, or in Guilder when they return?”

“Well, traditionally, we supply you with ones from Florin. If you do wish to keep your own manservant, that can easily be arranged. Since your knight has sworn allegiance to the King of Guilder, he will have to return.” Combeferre says the last bit apologetically, and Grantaire can’t help but to swallow loudly.

“Um, okay.” He blinks rapidly. “Well, you better let Joly return with him. They’re very close, and I wouldn’t want to break them apart. Could I…” He falters. “Do I at least get to say goodbye?”

“Of course,” Combeferre says smoothly. “That can be arranged easily. Is there anyone else in Guilder you’d like to come back to be with you? Servants, chefs, friends?”

“No.” Grantaire swallows. “Only them.”

“Right. We’ll see to it that it’s arranged as you like it.”

As he’d like it would be Joly and Bossuet still by his side. Joly was assigned to him at birth, to be a friend until he could be a servant, and he hasn’t gone a day without him in twenty-five years. Bossuet was an add-on later in life, but by no means unimportant. He’s not going to call off this engagement for a manservant, but my if he’s tempted, and he’s aware this is going to hurt like a bitch.

“We’ll be waiting on Guilder’s official diplomatic response with the return of your items. Meanwhile, you will have most of your days off, so you can explore, getting to know the lands and people. As the future, uh,” Combeferre hesitates. “King’s spouse,” Grantaire snorts. “You should know the history and rules of Florin well, so you’ll have an academic tutor.”

“Oh motherfucker,” he mutters. “I thought I was done with that.”

“Also,” Combeferre says, ignoring the interruption. “You must have a fantastic grasp on Florin’s policies and politics, domestically and internationally, so you’ll have to attend the small council meetings.”

“Oh motherfucker,” Grantaire says, much louder. “Avoiding those was to be the best thing about this place.”

“And, to get to know your husband-to-be, you’ll have scheduled dates with him. These can be planned by you or by others, but you and he must attend at least one a week.”

“Oh motherfucker,” Grantaire says, burying his head in his hands.

“We’ll find things to do, Grantaire,” Enjolras says from behind, startling him. “You don’t know Florin, so I’ll be able to show you around. At very least, we can talk about Guilder.”

“I’m not giving you all their state secrets,” Grantaire bites out, even though if pressured, he probably would.

“That’s not what I meant,” Enjolras says weakly, but Combeferre takes back over before Grantaire can parse out what he actually did mean.

“You’ll get used to the routine, Grantaire. Now, the wedding is a difficult matter. It is normally custom for the Prince to be married well before the crowning ceremony so he and the woman would have time to adjust. However, Enjolras has waited until the last possible second, and this is the time that, usually, the announcements and invitations for the crowning ceremony would be sent out. Given that the King does not want to make people make the trip twice, the two will be on the same day - the wedding first, as Enjolras must be married before taking the crown. The crowning ceremony will happen later in the evening.

“It’s custom that the crowning ceremony is on the King’s twenty fifth birthday, as we are currently planning. Now, normally, the marriage is to be consummated immediately, and the bride is to become pregnant within the year, so the King will always have a twenty five year reign.”

“I’m not entirely sure what they will say,” Enjolras says, hands twitching by his side, eyes alight with some kind of inward anger that always seems to be burning at the surface. “There isn’t a law written in case the woman is barren or cannot become pregnant or fails to bring forth a male heir, like it’s an impossibility in their eyes.”

“I could pray to the gods for a uterus?” Grantaire suggests.

“You do that,” Combeferre says, standing up. “In the meantime, I’ll attempt to converse with the council, and see what solution they come up with.”

“But Combeferre,” Enjolras says, placing a hand on arm to stop him. “You—”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, gently shaking off his hand. “Let me do my job.”

They stare at each for a moment, silently communicating, and it seems slightly too private for Grantaire to be looking at. He averts his eyes.

“Grantaire, it was a pleasure,” Combeferre says, pivots on his heel, and walks out.

“He’s a fine example of a man,” Grantaire says, just for something to say. It makes Enjolras let out a quiet, annoyed grunt, and then he does the same, turning to follow in Combeferre’s footsteps, leaving Grantaire alone at a random table in a random room in a castle he doesn’t know, with only a squished apricot tart in his pocket to guide him.

* * *

It takes Grantaire over half an hour to find his room, and even then, it wasn’t his doing. An amused chamber maid found him pretending to be extremely interested in a tapestry on the wall, took pity, and kindly lead him back to his room.

He’s one step inside, and a short flurry rams into him, knocking the wind out of him, and he momentarily thinks the King has sent out an assassin to kill him.

“Oh Grantaire,” a voice sobs, and Grantaire knows that voice. Moving past his moment of stunned confusion, he reaches his arms around, hugging Joly close. 

“Hey friend,” he says softly. “Did you hear the news?”

Joly makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a cry, and Grantaire’s heart breaks slightly.

“Yeah, I heard,” Joly says softly, into his shirt. “How are you feeling?”

The fact that he would think to check in with Grantaire has his eyes misting over, and suddenly he’s realizing he might not be able to be quite as brave as he thought he could at letting Joly go quietly.

“I’m okay,” he answers. He tries pulling back slowly to look him in the face, but Joly’s arms cling around his neck, holding him in place. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Joly says, and he’s speaking into Grantaire’s neck, face smashed up against his shoulder. It’s the feeling of wet tears that has Grantaire pulling him back.

“It’s okay, Joly. You get to go back to Guilder and be with Bossuet. It’s okay.” Joly’s pressed so close that Grantaire can physically feel when he makes the turn from distraught to irritated.

“I’m upset about losing you, you moron, not Guilder,” he says, pulling back at last, and swatting Grantaire on the chest.

“Oh,” Grantaire says dumbly. “Well, that’s. I mean, yeah. Me too.”

Joly’s lovely enough to pretend his babbling makes sense. “I can’t believe they aren’t letting me stay your manservant. After twenty-five years, it’s just over. It’s not right.” His voice is hiccupy, like he’s a second away from divulging back into tears.

The words to ask him to stay catch hard in Grantaire’s throat, and he swallows around them. He doubts it’s fair to make Joly pick between he and Bossuet, given he’s bound by oath to do as Grantaire asks. He just wants to do right about Joly, but it doesn’t seem like there’s instructions for that.

In his absence of words, Joly takes his miserable look to be agreement, and gently leads him to sit down.

“We can be sad together in a moment,” he says. He gives a wobbly smile. “I guess I should say congratulations. What did you do to make him fall for you?”

Despite it all, that’s such a ridiculous question, Grantaire can’t help but bark out a laugh.

“He doesn’t like me, Joly. I in no way made him fall for me.”

He gives Joly the abridged version of what it means for the country, and by the end of it, Joly’s nodding vehemently, on the edge of happiness for the first time of the night.

“I told you, this crown prince was different. He’s already making changes.”

“He’s something,” Grantaire agrees.

“What’s he like?” Joly asks.

“Uh,” Grantaire falters. Intimidating, but wholly alluring. “He’s short. Blonde. Blue eyes. Good dancer. Good posture. Likes apricots.”

“Grantaire,” Joly sighs, and Grantaire makes the executive decision to stop being a dick, because this might be his last night with Joly.

“He seems smart,” Grantaire confesses. “Like, really, actually smart, and not in a book way. He’s like a whole different tier of person – he has so much confidence and class. I can’t even really explain how elegant he is. But he seems angry – like legitimately unhappy about the state of things, even at his own engagement party. Disquieted, I guess, is a way to put it.” He swallows loudly. “And lovely. He’s lovely. I don’t think he likes me, particularly.”

“He wouldn’t have chosen you if he didn’t like you,” Joly says flippantly, like it’s that easy. “You’ll be at his side for the next sixty years. If he couldn’t stand you, he wouldn’t have picked you.”

“I don’t know.” Grantaire shakes his head. “He seems like he’s willing to take any step for political movement, even being around someone he can’t stand.”

“He doesn’t even know you,” Joly says gently.

“You really think getting to know me would help?” Grantaire snorts. “That’d make it worse.”

“Grantaire,” Joly admonishes, looking down, playing with his hands. “Don’t say that.”

“Who knows, maybe we’ll fall in a massive, steamy, torrid love affair,” he says, strictly for Joly’s benefit. He knocks him with his shoulder, and it makes Joly smile, so he considers it a success.

“Do you think you could love him?” Joly asks, so sincere that it actually makes Grantaire pause.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says, after a moment of actual pondering. “I don’t know if he’ll let me know him enough to love him. But I’ll give you one thing – he certainly is striking. I think I could spend my life watching him and not get bored. It’s certainly a better plan than watching the old small council till I die. It’s like a difference between a rock and the sun.”

Joly nods seriously, before grinning.

“Do you think he’ll be good at sex?”

Grantaire barks out a laugh, surprised. Instead of answering, he grabs Joly in another hug, holding him tight. It’s apparently the response he wanted, because Joly doesn’t say a word, just holds on, squeezing his middle until his stomach hurts.

* * *

After Joly and Bossuet leave the next morning, Grantaire is in no mood to talk to anyone. He’s blinking fast enough that his vision is only coming in half-second splits, and he desperately wants to find some kind of solitude before he breaks down in the middle of the castle square.

Without too much thought, he puts his head down and speed walks away, arms around his middle, trying to hold himself in one piece. He keeps going until he runs into a building, which, by the smell, tells him it’s the stable.

He looks up, tears freely flowing now, and quickly slides the door open, and slips in. He scans the stalls. It’s seems that its sequestered into the royal family, members of the court and council, and castle guests. More than likely, there’s a separate stable for the Knights, if Guilder is any frame of reference.

Grantaire walks down the royal court aisle, sniffling loudly. Most of the horses are tall and regal, as well as intimidatingly large and powerful; but the third horse down is a small bright palomino, probably only 15 hands, and Grantaire can’t help but to walk up for a closer look. His mane is long and flowing, but his forelock has been straight cropped right above his eyes. 

“Well, don’t you look silly,” he says to him, patting him between his ears. It shouldn’t, but it makes him feel slightly better that a royal horse looks so ridiculous. With a final pat, he takes a step to continue on his way, and stops with a start when he recognizes the next horse down.

“Horse,” he breathes. “It’s you. What are you doing here?”

He quickly lets himself into the stall, petting her neck down roughly. She mostly ignores him to keep eating, except for a quick toss of the head.

He pets her long and rough, and though he knows he isn’t actually doing much, it helps to channel his emotion into something more physical. After a few minutes, the tears have slowed into a trickle, and his breathing has evened out into the occasional hiccup. 

Grantaire doesn’t consciously decide to hug her, but before he can register it, his arms are around the horse’s neck, and he’s squeezing hard, probably stopping the poor horse from eating her hay. The horse stands patiently, and Grantaire falls a little in love again. 

“Hey, who are you? You can’t be in there,” a voice says, and Grantaire quickly drops his arms, rubbing his eyes in a lost cause to wipe away the remnants of tears.

The stall door opens, and its Courfeyrac, the stable boy from before, who looks far more surprised to see Grantaire than he is to see Courfeyrac.

“Oh.” His mouth has dropped into a little surprised ‘o.’ “You.”

“Me,” Grantaire confirms, leaning back on his horse. “Thought I’d come visit my horse. Is that allowed?”

“Yes, of course,” Courfeyrac says, shaking his head, then shutting the stall door behind him. “I just should know first, so I don’t think someone is coming to hurt the Royal Family’s horses.”

“The door was unlocked,” Grantaire says, feeling the need to justify himself a bit.

“Yes, well, with so many people leaving after the ball, it seemed a waste to lock it over and over.” Courfeyrac looks guilty, which in turn makes Grantaire feel guilty.

“I’m sorry I sneaked in. I just thought.” He stops. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“It’s okay,” Courfeyrac says gently. “Horses can be incredibly comforting.”

Grantaire didn’t know that when coming in, but maybe it was instinct, because it seems that Courfeyrac is right.

“You’re saying that like I need comfort,” Grantaire tries, which is probably stupid, considering the shape his face is probably in.

Courfeyrac looks at him a moment. “We all need comfort sometimes,” he says quietly. “Especially when our lives take a big turn.”

“I suppose you’ve heard then.” Grantaire sighs. “I guess at this point, who hasn’t?”

“I had to get this stall ready for the new member of the royal family,” he says, which explains why Horse is on that side of the stable. “I can’t say I was unhappy to see it was this gal.”

He pets her on the nose, and shoots Grantaire a smile. “I knew Enjolras wouldn’t go down quietly, but I got to say, you weren’t exactly what I was expecting. It’s a good move, though.”

“Enjolras?” Grantaire questions. “Not Prince Enjolras?”

Courfeyrac fixes him with a long, steady look. “You’ve got a couple things to learn about your husband to be.”

“I’m sure it’ll come with time,” Grantaire says, though he’s sure that he’s not certain of that at all.

“It will,” Courfeyrac says, giving the horse a final pat. He turns, and smiles at Grantaire. “In the meantime, I’m here. Whether you need a stable boy or a friend, I’m available.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, feeling touched. “I might need that.”

He’s already berating himself for the word choice of ‘need’ when Courfeyrac takes a step forward, and envelops Grantaire in his arms. After a surprised moment, Grantaire remembers to hug back, and tries not to cling on too tightly.

“Technically, you’re royalty now, so I shouldn’t touch you without permission, but you looked like you needed it,” Courfeyrac mumbles, voice muffled by Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry; I won’t tell,” Grantaire murmurs back into his ear.

Courfeyrac pats him hard on the back, and draws back. “I’m supposed to give you a key. For the stables, so if you want to ride, you don’t have to track me down.”

He reaches into his pocket, and brandishes a key, handing it over to Grantaire, who stuffs it into his keepsake bag around his neck. 

“Come around anytime, my Lord,” Courfeyrac says, bowing.

“Just Grantaire, please.”

“As you wish,” Courfeyrac says, and gives him a final smile before letting himself out of the stall. “One last thing, sir – what is the new royal horse’s name? We are putting it on her new royal tack for her.”

“Oh,” Grantaire stutters. “Oh, uh.”

“It’s not Horsie, right?” Courfeyrac asks, clearly joking, which just makes Grantaire feel worse about the whole situation. He turns to the horse, takes in her off-white coat, and says the first thing it reminds him of.

“Her name’s Potato.”

There’s a beat of silence, before Courfeyrac laughs loud, clear and ringing.

“I cannot wait to embroider and inscribe that into all her equipment,” he says, and as Grantaire hears his steps walk away, he can’t help but to put his head on her stomach in defeat.

* * *

“You’re late,” Enjolras says the moment Grantaire walks into the small council chamber.

Logically, Grantaire knows that it’d only take a moment to explain that he left a half hour early but got lost halfway through the castle, and ended up somehow in the kitchens, where a nice chef escorted him to the proper area.

“I figured you’d wait for me,” he says instead, walking properly in. The table is full. Enjolras looks unhappy and disappointed, which gives Grantaire the odd feeling of being a little boy again, with something still to prove, and he makes a mental note to memorize the halls.

“I understand that Guilder probably had much different expectations of you, but here, we’re actually trying to accomplish something—”

“And we weren’t there?” Grantaire asks. He takes one of the two open seats, and distantly hopes it isn’t Enjolras’, who is the only one standing. The entire table is staring at them and their pre-marital spat, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m sure you had purposes at your meetings there,” Enjolras says, like he’s trying to pick his words carefully. “But I have actually productive things I need to get through, and all members need to be here on time for that to happen.”

“Sorry, I’m still stuck on where you seem to think that Guilder’s philosophers and politicians meet weekly for shits and giggles.” He puts his feet up on the table. “You do realize that even though we’ve been opposed for centuries, Guilder still is a legitimate country? With laws? And rulers? And people? And regulations—”

“I am perfectly aware of that.” Enjolras rakes a hand through his hair, making it even fluffier than normal. “I wasn’t implying you don’t have your own important policy meetings at Guilder.”

“Good, because we most certainly do,” Grantaire says. “How can we most efficiently murder all the kittens in the land? Is there a way we can send our entire army out disguised as trees to steal all the crops of the peasants? All heated topics of discussion.”

“Move to your proper seat,” Enjolras snaps, which has the dichotomous effect of making Grantaire warm with attention and cold from pushing Enjolras into an obvious dismissal. And great, apparently he chose the wrong chair. It figures.

He stands, and shuffles over to the seat to Enjolras’ right. The entire table is outright staring at him, and he’s starting to wish his self-preservation instincts were a little stronger.

“Lovely table,” Grantaire comments, lowering himself down. “And the chairs are much better than the ones in my old small council. There’s so much to be thankful for.”

Grantaire’s completely ignored, which doesn’t surprise him. 

“Now that we’re all assembled,” a man says slowly, rising from the other end of the table. Grantaire vaguely recognizes him, and makes the connection that he’s probably the Hand of the King. “We may begin. May I remind members of the small council that I run these meetings, including choosing the topic at hand.”

Grantaire’s expecting a reprimanding look, and is surprised to see the pointed look at shot at Enjolras, who falls down into his chair with less grace than he probably should, looking thoroughly peeved. 

“The first topic is welcoming Grantaire to the small council.”

Everyone turns to look at him, and the silence stretches out.

“Hey,” Grantaire says weakly, because they’re still staring at him. “Thank you for the welcome?” he guesses.

This time, he doesn’t even know what he’s done wrong; is he supposed to have a speech prepared? Is he supposed to stand up and thank them? Is there some kind of lesson on this that he missed: how to address your new fiancé’s political group?

“Welcome to the small council of Florin,” The Hand says after a tortuously long pause. “I’m sure you’ll find it very welcoming.”

That’s extremely debatable, but Grantaire just nods.

“By accepting Enjolras’ proposal, you made an informal swear to change your allegiance to that of Florin’s King. We will do this formally in a few days time. This is not going to be a problem.”

It probably should be a question, but he doesn’t frame it like one, so Grantaire just nods again.

“We will save introductions. First, do you know why you’re here?”

The uncomfortable pausing, outright staring, direct orders, circular questions – Grantaire knows this is all a power play – just one he has absolutely no interest in playing. He should probably be nervous, but at this point, he’s just irritated. It’s not like he demanded to be put on the council.

“Wow, that’s a loaded question.” He reaches forward to pour himself a glass of wine. He can feel Enjolras’ stare boring into the side of his face, and he does his best to ignore it. It’s already become rather clear that his personality isn’t conducive to Enjolras’ respect, so he might as well give up while he’s behind. “Why am I here? Well, from a philosophic viewpoint, I suppose, it’s gathering the most knowledge I can during my few years to make life a better place for all; of course, that’s going off the idea that all knowledge is derived from an ultimate good, which is intrinsically just and moral, which we all should know is questionable.”

He gets several blank stares for that one, and he takes the moment of silence to take a large gulp of wine. It’s not quite as strong as the ones in Guilder; he’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. 

“He meant at this particular meeting, not life in general,” Enjolras whispers next to him, like he’s imparting a Great Secret that Grantaire is totally unaware of. Grantaire turns to him, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m aware,” he whispers back. Enjolras’ face flushes, and he sits back into his chair, rod-straight.

“Funny,” the Hand of the King says, and Grantaire gets the distinct impression that he doesn’t like to be made a fool. “I was more referencing the small council meeting you weren’t punctual for.” 

“Oh, that.” Grantaire takes a large sip of wine, rapping his other hand on the table in a disturbingly loud motion. “Mostly for the food. I got to have those famous Florin apricots.”

“We don’t have food here,” another member snaps.

“And look at me being so polite about my disappointment. Should I call in a servant, get that remedied?”

“You should shut your mouth and pay attention,” The Hand snaps. “This type of buffoonery may pass in Guilder—”

“Still ragging on Guilder.” Grantaire sighs. “Will the animosity never end?”

“You’re not much of a peace weaver,” Enjolras says, but his tone is quite notably milder than the rest of the council.

“You haven’t even given me a chance, husband,” Grantaire says dramatically.

“Fiancé,” Enjolras corrects.

“Of course; I was putting the horse before the cart. You may tire of me yet.”

“If we could move on—” The Hand starts.

“We could, but then we wouldn’t have this lovely banter going on, would we?”  

“Listen, fool—”

“Oh, fool? I think I preferred buffoon.” Grantaire says, putting his feet down.

“I did not intend to be offensive—”

“Don’t worry about it. On the list of things I care about, your opinion ranks very low.”

“I command you to let me have a word—”

“A word? Pejorative. All yours.”  

“Will you listen,” the Hand bellows, and Grantaire’s figured he’s made his point.

“I intend to serve here as long as I am forced,” Grantaire says, looking the man in the eye best he can from across the table. “In the meantime, I see no need for me to actually be involved in any of these meetings beyond my presence. You can sign my name for the attendance sheets for the record books, but it would be my great pleasure to sit in silence. I will vote when you ask me to vote. I will decide what you ask me to decide. I will do as Enjolras asks, as his husband. But I will not be an involuntary politician, no matter what is expected of me or traditional. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s much wiser to let me stare out the window than force me to participate, no?”

The Hand’s face is going a light shade of purple, and Grantaire can’t get a read at on Enjolras still beside him, but he figures if being a shit for a few minutes gets him out of having to pretend to be a politician for the foreseeable future, it was worth the trouble. It took the Guildarian small council nearly six months to learn that it was better to leave Grantaire alone to his thoughts and silence – if he could expedite that with just five minutes of irritation, he’d be damned if he let the opportunity slip by.

“Further questions concerning the upcoming wedding will be conducted in private,” the Hand says eventually, entire body twitching slightly, which pleases Grantaire a little too much. “For now, we will move on to the dam problem with the Eastern River.”

“I have an idea about that,” Enjolras says suddenly. By the way the entire council sighs, Grantaire is starting to think Enjolras is just as unwelcome as he, if for very different reasons.

He puts his head on the table, and stares up. This room’s ceiling is made out of stone, which should work well.

 

  
Grantaire’s never had this much trouble not paying attention before. Whenever his mind starts to wander and tune the council out, Enjolras’ tone rings through his haziness, bringing him sharply back into the present. 

Perhaps it’d be easier to ignore if the whole meeting wasn’t such a shit show.

In theory, the small council meetings are supposed to be the King’s hand picked, country running men all come together to discuss policy. In theory, it is supposed to have high ruling royals, philosophers, army generals, proletariat experts, and other great, high-ranking men of different expertise who all offer different perspectives on policy. In theory, they should all genially discuss what will be the best rules for the royal and the people, draw up laws, and then propose them to the King once a month. In theory, it makes the monarchy run smoothly.

In practice, Grantaire’s never seen it run efficiently, but, admittedly, all his experiences with Guilder’s have shown far more restraint, geniality, and competence than this.

It isn’t necessarily all Enjolras’ fault, though Grantaire could easily see how the small council could see it that way.

It had started with the dam.

The Eastern River was Florin’s main source of water for the city. From what Grantaire could gather, three years ago the small council had issued a dam be built on it, creating a reservoir to stop flooding, along with supplying water for irrigation, human consumption, industrial use, and agriculture watering. Apparently it had been damaged in some sort of storm, and the council was discussing the best way to repair the damages.

It had started as a general back and forth of ideas, and had gradually devolved into a screaming fiasco. Most of the council approved a slight increase in taxes for a month, but Enjolras had disagreed, stubbornly sitting in his chair, refusing to sign the bill until they at least heard him out on moving funds from some building project on the lands. 

Grantaire was never fond of his small council members back in Guilder, but at least they didn’t think shouting over one another was an appropriate discussion method.

Grantaire may have been slouching back in his seat, completely uninvolved, but his eyes followed the entire discussion, unable not to. 

Eventually the dam question settled down, with a ridiculous decision to ‘decide next session,’ and had moved to replacing the floors in an upstairs library.

It didn’t seem possible, but it became evidently clear that Enjolras had an opinion about everything. Everything.

At first, Grantaire thought Enjolras just cared a surprisingly large amount about lower class taxation, but after seeing him become equally passionate about cow feed as he was about sustainable irrigation, it became rather obvious that Enjolras is passionate about changing the system in every conceivable way.

There isn’t an argument he makes that isn’t centered around the people who live in the country they represent, and it’s as impressive as it is unbelievable.

He’s mesmerizing, in a magnetic, inspiring, intimidating kind of way. He plays on an odd dichotomy of calmness and composure, waiting his turn to speak, but when challenged, he’s set off into a fiery passionate fit, throwing words like knives.

It’s no wonder Grantaire can’t focus on the ceiling.

Over three hours later, the meeting starts to wrap up, and Grantaire honestly can’t even tell if he’s relieved or not. His ass is for sure – the chairs are made out of oak – but he doubts anything in the castle will be so distracting as the crown prince.

“One last manner to discuss before we are dismissed,” the Hand says, and by precedent, this could easily add another forty five minutes if they’re not careful. “Is Grantaire’s full assimilation into the royal family.”

All eyes turn to him, including Enjolras’, and he can’t help but to shift in his seat.

“What about it?” Enjolras asks, tone icier than it’s been the whole meeting. Grantaire side-eyes him, taking in his crossed arms and impassive face.

“He’s marrying into royal blood, and should know what will be expected of him in a month’s time.”

“You know what I love more than anything else? Being talked about in third person when I am right fucking here,” he says, unable to stop the words from tumbling out his mouth. The Hand looks skyward, like he’s literally praying for patience. It’s almost a compliment, that Grantaire has earned someone’s appeal to the gods.

“You have very little responsibility before the marriage.” The Hand says. “You will only have your meetings with Prince Enjolras, along with the council and education meetings. Other than that, this will be your assimilation time, and you’ll be given a distance until you find yourself accustomed to our culture and practices in the castle. Afterwards,” and his tone slips deeper, more commanding. “You will be expected to fit in with the royal blood. For daily activities, this includes dining with the royal family at every meal.”

“Breakfast is at 6AM,” Enjolras adds. “I know you have been taking it closer to 11.”

“I may have to leave you,” Grantaire says solemnly.

“If the sun is awake, you should be awake, dear,” Enjolras says, and sounds deadpan enough that Grantaire can’t help a surprised laugh.

The Hand coughs hard, trying to regain attention.

“Anyway,” he says, glaring at Enjolras. “You will also be expected to take on all wifely duties. Just because you are a man doesn’t mean they aren’t going to be done. You must learn to sew, write letters, converse with other royals, dance, sing, play an instrument, ride, and watch children. The most important of these is obviously keeping up good relations with other people. The Queen is usually the ambassador.”

“Great,” Grantaire says. “So I’m going to be the representation of class for this country.” His hand itches towards the pitcher of wine.

“Yes,” the Hand says, looking slightly queasy. “You will have help from the Queen, but, eventually, all responsibility will shift to you.”

“Anything else I should be aware of?” Grantaire asks.

“So much,” Enjolras mutters next to him.

“Your most important role is as the King’s companion. You are to be the pillar on which he stands.”

“That doesn’t sound degrading at all,” Grantaire says brightly, all false cheer.

“You are to be at his side at all times,” the Hand continues, ignoring him. “You will be the ear to which he confesses, talks, plans, and unwinds. You will be the arm to give him support. You will be a bedmate when he needs release. You are there for his emotional comfort and stability. Your role is to be his husband, and to make it as easy as possible for him to run the country.” 

“Your role,” Enjolras interrupts. “As my husband, is to be my companion.”

“That’s what I said,” the Hand says, but Grantaire can’t help but to think that they were describing two wildly different things. “You will learn more with time, especially from observing the Queen. I am sure you have some of your own experience from Guilder. You will learn your place.”

And you will stay in it, Grantaire mentally adds, because that’s obviously the driving home point here. He’s not going to be a political leader; he’s a sounding board for one. And, honestly, he can live with that. 

“It’ll come with due time, I’m sure,” Grantaire says, standing. “Is that all? Are we finally dismissed?”

“I dismiss the small council,” the Hand snaps. It’s quiet a moment, before he adds in a gruff voice, “Council dismissed.”

Grantaire’s already five steps out the door within three seconds, and he considers breaking out into a run before he hears someone step behind him. With a quick look, he sees it’s Enjolras.

“Hey,” he says, once he’s caught up to Grantaire. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Grantaire greets, belatedly. “Do you need something?”

“I thought I could walk you to wherever you’re going. We have hardly spoken since the engagement ceremony.”

“I’m just headed to my room for a nap.” He was actually planning on going to the kitchens to sneak some food, but he isn’t sure yet if Enjolras approves of that kind of behavior.

“I’ll walk you,” Enjolras repeats.

They fall in step together, Enjolras’ stride slightly faster than his own, and Grantaire cannot think of a single thing to break the awkward silence. That feeling of inferiority is back with a vengeance, and every possible discussion topic sounds impossibly stupid and trivial even in his own head.

“So,” Enjolras says about a minute in, breaking the silence. “Your speech in there about not wanting to be an active member of the council.”

“Yes?” Grantaire prompts, when it seems Enjolras isn’t going to follow that up.

“Were you serious?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “Wouldn’t have put on that show if I wasn’t.”

“May I ask why?” Enjolras asks, voice carefully even. Grantaire can’t help but wonder what emotion it is he’s actively controlling.

“No one actually cares for my opinion. They didn’t in Guilder, as I was just there by tradition, and they won’t here, as I am just there by formality. My silence saves the council the trouble of pretending to give any credence to my thoughts, and it saves me the trouble of caring about issues that I’ll never be able to change.”

“But you can change them,” Enjolras says seriously, eyes focused on Grantaire. His fixation almost runs him into a candlestick, but Grantaire grabs his sleeve just in time, pulling him over a fraction. Enjolras doesn’t seem fazed, continuing, “You’re in the council that makes laws. You can force them to listen to you.”

“I doubt that.”

“Look at me,” Enjolras says, gesturing to himself. “I’m a doorstopper to most of their plans.You must have seen today the difference a dissenting opinion can make.”

“I’m not you,” Grantaire says, and it feels like a gross understatement.

“You don’t need to be,” Enjolras says, gaze earnest enough that Grantaire can’t make himself look back. “You can be just another voice.”

“I don’t even know anything about Florin,” Grantaire says. They passed the turn for his chamber almost two hallways ago, but there’s something about Enjolras’ attention that he can’t quite shake, some desperate, childish yearning inside of him that wants attention, like a child tugging on his mother’s sleeve, look at me! even when he has nothing good to show about himself once he’s gained his attention. “I wouldn’t have anything worthwhile to add. It’s easier to close my eyes and ignore it all.”

“Closing your eyes isn’t going to change anything. Nothing changes just because you can’t see what’s going on.”

“But I don’t even know what is going on.”

“Then learn,” Enjolras says. Their footsteps are echoing against the stone ceilings, joining with Enjolras’ stupidly earnest voice. “Your academic sessions will help, but I am more than willing to sit down with you and teach you the ways of the land and the issues. Ignorance isn’t bliss when awareness could help others.”

“Look, I get that ignorance may not be bliss, but it certainly is less work.”

“Oh,” Enjolras snaps, halting. Grantaire stops, and looks back at him. Enjolras’ eyes are narrowed. “So this isn’t it about you lacking know-how about Florin. This is about laziness.”

“To a degree,” Grantaire agrees, even though that’s mostly a lie. It’s more that he’s already exhausted of politics, and it’s been a day. He has neither the energy nor the inclination to invest his spirit into something that will constantly be a vicious struggle even on its best days.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. He stops, and sighs long. When he looks back, his voice is kinder, softer. “I don’t you well enough to know how to argue you out of this. So, at very least, can I ask you to support me in the meetings?”

“You mean vote what you vote?”

“Yes, I suppose, but also just back me up.” He takes a step forward, and looks directly into Grantaire’s eyes, which makes his breather falter, and his stomach squirm with something unmistakable. “We’re a team now. I’m on your side, and will try to be always. I’d like for you to be on mine. Will you?”

Grantaire nods, because he’s not sure he trusts himself to speak.

Enjolras stares at him for a moment, and apparently finds whatever he was looking for in his face, because he makes a curt nod, and turns, walking back from where he came.

It takes Grantaire around ten minutes to retreat back to his bedchamber, and when he does, he sits on his bed, holding his head in his hands.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was a World Ain't Ready reference you spotted!


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire wakes up alone.

For a moment, he forgets why his chest feels as if he’s drowning. The lack of a manservant drawing the blinds to purposefully annoy him is the reminder.

He wishes he were better at loneliness. He remembers talking to an overly chatty Princess back when he was still put on diplomatic missions. The conversation had floated in the direction of being alone, as so many royals are, and she had said that she always felt more herself when lonely. She explained it that when she was with other people, there was always an expectation, always someone to disappoint, and you’re always dependent on someone else’s perceptions. Solitude offers certainty, of yourself and your impact on the world, and loneliness’s ache is just the sharp burning indicator that you’re not screwing up your place in the world.

See, Grantaire buys that. But, he just _can’t_ put it into practice - loneliness for him is the worst part of life, an ache akin to a coal put in down his shirt, a physical pull in his soul that will make him spend time with anyone, no matter who, even if it often leads to him to be embarrassed, or infuriating people he honestly probably should be bowing to, all in the name of being near someone.

He’s found that he’d rather feel like a failure than alone.

He hates it, but it’s unlikely to change.

He pushes off the covers - he’s probably missed breakfast.

 

He has missed breakfast, but the maid currently cleaning the kitchen is kind enough to give him some bread and jam. He chats with her for several minutes - after some prodding, she admits she really wants to be making glassware. Apparently her grandfather was a glassblower, and she had really enjoyed playing with the fires. He makes a mental note of the matter to possibly bring up to Combeferre, and, in the meantime, gives her a coin for properly delivering him to Enjolras, who is apparently drafting legislation in a library.  

“Grantaire,” he greets, standing. In his mind, he always envisions Enjolras taller. “What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing yet. Should I be somewhere, be doing something?”

Enjolras drops the pen that was still in his hand on the table and grimaces. “I forgot to tell you. There was a delay in your manservant. The person they had trained to take the job of the future Queen’s handmaiden was, of course, a woman. They don’t have a man properly trained yet, but they said they’d hurry and get it done by tomorrow. He’ll have your schedule from now on.”

“Okay, that’s fine." 

“Do you need anything?” Enjolras asked. “Anything at all?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

Enjolras's stare is almost as disconcerting as his scowl. “Look, Grantaire, I want this to be easy on you. If you need anything, _anything,_ just ask. It’s yours.”

Grantaire nods, eyebrows raised. “Okay.”

Enjolras stares, seemingly waiting for an answer. Grantaire can see the moment he realizes that’s all he is going to get, because he just nods to himself, and looks down. When he looks back up, his eyes are still oh so intense.  

“How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” Grantaire replies.

“And your room? How is the transition?”

“Fine, it’s all fine.”

“And the people? Everyone has been fine so far?” Enjolras pushes.

“Everyone has been fine. Your kitchen crew is really quite lovely. I think I may have convinced one to quit and take over her father’s business - sorry about that.”

Enjolras blinks. “That’s fine.” A pause. “And the royalty? You’re being treated okay?” he prods further. He seems somewhat desperate for some kind of news, but given that Grantaire woke up at like eleven, and Enjolras has been there for all his interactions with the ‘nobles,’ there isn’t much he can think to say.

“It’s all fine, Prince.”

“You’d tell me if it wasn’t?”

“I sort of feel like I’m being interrogated for a murder, here.”

Enjolras flushes, and leans on the table, his fingers immediately tapping on the table. “I’m sorry, but I just want to make sure you’re okay. You being here, and thus your wellbeing, is my responsibility.”

“You’re acting like I had no agency in this,” Grantaire can’t help but object. “I agreed to come here, I agreed to marry you, I agreed - you gave me an out, and I said no. It’s fine.”

“Let me know if it changes.” Enjolras doesn’t drop his eye until Grantaire nods in agreement. Another pause, and then, “Is the castle to your liking?”

“Oh my gods,” Grantaire says, exasperated. “What’s with the questions?”

“I just want to get to know you! We’ll be married; we should get to know each other.”

“I know stuff about you. You’re blond, like to argue, are interested in laws—”

“I mean stuff beyond what you could know about me at a glance,” Enjolras interrupts. “Stuff partners would know.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know!” He’s starting to get exasperated, Grantaire can tell, and it took all of two minutes. “How you like your eggs, your favorite color, your hopes, dreams, fears, top ten success and disappointments, that sort of stuff.”

“I always dreamed of being royalty, being forced to sit through legislation meetings as I get properly drunk, and having enough notoriety to never have to make my own food, and to be just influential enough that I can fuck over every poor peasant in the kingdom—”

“Stop,” Enjolras says, shaking his head and holding up a hand. “I know you’re kidding, but just stop.”

“What do you want me to say?” He doesn’t know what to say to this sort of focused interest in his person. It’s a break in the loop of how his interactions with people usually go, so far out of his comfort zone that he just doesn’t know how to properly respond, so he just continues, “Won’t all that come with time?” 

“If you ever answer me properly,” Enjolras replies. His tone is deadpan but his eyes are bright, so Grantaire doesn’t feel too chastised.  

“How about on our date?” Grantaire evades.

“That’ll be tomorrow evening,” Enjolras says, and so Grantaire has an entire day to worry about that.

“And today? What am I supposed to do? Stay in here and answer 1001 questions?” He means it to be teasing, but Enjolras looks slightly embarrassed, which in turn makes Grantaire feel a little bad. 

“Well, barring you wanting to do that, I know my mother wanted to meet with you, get you started on the Queen training.”

“I haven’t met her yet. Is she nice?”

Enjolras smiles a little, which tells Grantaire more than his words ever could. “Yeah, she’s nice. She’s the most giving woman I’ve ever met. Last year, her handmaiden stole a necklace from her jewelry box, and her response was to give her a second one to keep, since she sold the first.”

She sounds like Enjolras. “She sounds wonderful.”

“She is. She’s much kinder than my father. I’ll never understand why she said yes to the marriage.”

“Was it a diplomatic marriage?”

“Yeah. She was from Shilling. She was their youngest daughter and was planning on becoming celibate and become a spiritual advisor - she already lived with a couple, but her parents decided last minute that an alliance with Florin would be more beneficial than letting her have her own wishes and life.”

Right, Grantaire remembers something about that in a history class - Shilling had a potato shortage at the same time Florin had an water contamination issue.

It takes him a moment to place the bitterness in Enjolras’s tone.

“It doesn’t sound like she had much say in the matter.”

“There’s always a choice, it’s just easier to think you don’t. She didn’t have to agree - I will never understand it.”

“You really blame her that much?”

Enjolras sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “I love her, but - I’d rather be alone than be with someone I can’t respect, who doesn’t hold their values like I do. I’d rather never talk again than be forced to listen to someone like him, just inanely droning on about—” He cuts himself off. “I shouldn’t influence your opinion. She’s in the main hall study if you’d like to see her now.”

Grantaire nods, because he doesn’t think he can speak.

He might be done speaking in Enjolras’s presence, actually.

* * *

Enjolras’s directions are good enough that he finds the room without much trouble. When he opens the door, his stomach drops at seeing that both the King and Queen are at a long table. Both stand to greet him.

“Your highnesses,” he says with a slight bow. “Enjolras sent me here for diplomacy training?”

“Prince Enjolras,” the King corrects. “Yes, come sit.”

Grantaire does, choosing the seat to the left of the Queen and opposite the King. His feet immediately begin to tap, and he reaches for the wine pitcher and a glass in the middle of the table, just for something to do with his hands.

“So, what will this consist of?”

“Are you sober enough to follow the conversation?”

Grantaire pauses as he’s going to take a sip.

So it was going to be like that, then.

He downs the glass that he was planning on just having to fiddle with, and fills it again. As he’s pouring, he catches the King’s eye. “Well, how about you get started while I’m still speaking in complete sentences?

The Queen has little reaction, just watching in silence, but the King visibly twitches.

“The first matter will be the transferring of diplomatic duties,” he says after a moment. “We will be writing a letter to each country’s Hand informing them of the switch over and to address all further action to you.” That explains the mounds of papers, quill, and large address book on the table. The King picks up a piece of paper and a quill. “How do you spell your name?”

“Capital G, capital R, small a - oh shit, I messed that up. That’s an small G, capital R - wait, shit, that’s still not right.”

The King drops his quill, and Grantaire can see how tightly he’s clenching his fist on the table.

“You are being insubordinate.”

“Wow, it’s like you're a detective on the King’s Guard, or something. Maybe you missed your calling by going toward politics.”

The King has an unfortunate face where it appears to turn puce quite quickly. He wonders where Enjolras got his looks from - the hair is clear, but the handsomeness, much less so. “Are you incapable of taking this seriously?”

“I have a medical condition, you see. My brain was malformed in the womb, and  the giving-a-shit lobe never fully developed.”

The King’s chair scrapes against the wooden floor. “Myriel,” he barks. “You take care of this.”

The Queen, Myriel apparently, watches him leave the room with virtually no expression on her face. As the doors slam, reverberating in the stone chamber, she turns slightly to face Grantaire.

“Hello, Grantaire,” she greets.

His eyes widen slightly without his permission. He knows where Enjolras got his eyes. “Hello.”

“We haven’t been properly introduced. You may call me Myriel.” She offers him her hand, which he kisses, and he can feel almost all of the tension drain from his body.

“It’s nice to formally meet you.”

“I don’t suspect we’ll be able to spend too much time together - after your training in Queenly duties, the Queen Regent tends to retire to the South, which I fully plan on doing. Given that, I’d rather like to get to know the man who will be with my son.”

She doesn’t speak like Enjolras, with confidence and passion - that must have been learned from his father, albeit performed in a very different fashion. But she has an underlying note of kindness in her voice, and that’s something Grantaire will never take for granted.

“So, Enjolras’s mother.” He bites his lip, and the decides, to hell with it all. “Do _you_ have any advice for how to deal with him for the next sixty years?”

She laughs. “Patience and a good ear. He’s always been a fighter - he was birthed two weeks early, pushed his way out, and screamed for the first three months of life. He’s strong willed, I will give you that, but he’ll listen - I made sure of that.”

“Good to know.” He pauses, and she waits for him to continue. “I’m just - worried, I suppose. About being stuck with someone who can’t stand my existence.”

“You will get used to each other,” she says, and the way her eyes flick to the door isn’t lost on Grantaire.

“How do you do it?” he asks in a moment of surprising earnestness. “How bad is it?”

“Not that bad,” she replies softly. “You need to learn, Grantaire, is that everyone is multifaceted. There’s good in everyone - if you focus on that, it becomes a lot easier to be content around people.”

“But what if their good isn’t in the part of their life it needs to be? Like, just because they don’t kick dogs doesn’t mean they won’t throw things at me when they are mad, or won’t start a war in the name of a non-existent god.”

“I don’t think you’ll have that problem in your marriage,” she says kindly, and something in Grantaire eases slightly. “But I know what you mean. Always try to see it from the other side, Grantaire. And if you can’t, I have found that kindness and quietness is a better diplomatic foundation to build off of than sarcasm and ire.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I can do that.”

“Neither could my son,” she says with some amusement, and Grantaire laughs a little, despite himself. “You’ll find your way. It’ll become a new normal in time.”

He nods.

He’s been unconsciously picking at a thumbnail, and it’s starting to bleed. He puts it under the table, and with a cheer he doesn’t feel, says, “Shall we get started?”

“Letters are a never ending part of the game,” she says with a sigh, reaching for a quill.

“What I don’t understand,” he starts, pouring himself another glass of wine. “Is why you are all - and by that I mean the small council and you royal folk - are pushing this whole ‘turn Grantaire into a respectable player of the game’ thing. The ‘tradition’ argument doesn’t hold up under scrutiny - I’ve already broken with tradition. What is one more in wake of that? In actuality, it’d be setting a _new_ tradition for a male to be taking on these jobs. Now, don’t get me wrong,” he takes a sip of the wine. “I have nothing against males doing them. But I don’t particularly _want_ to do them myself. I’m sure there’s people on the small council salivating to have these kind of diplomatic roles. Why would anyone want to give this job to someone who it, technically, is not traditionally their role, who doesn’t want to do it, is obviously under qualified, and who would obviously do it badly? Not to mention, I’m getting the slight inkling that you all don’t particularly think me capable. Why push me to take it? Just appoint someone else. I’m not going to argue.”

The Queen is quiet for several moments. She has dropped the quill.

“You’re going to get along well with my son,” she says finally, and Grantaire’s feet drop off the table in surprise.

“I will bring this argument to the attention of the King. We’ll hold off on the letters.”

“In the meantime?” he asks.

“Perhaps we should find the Royal tailor—”

“Fantine,” Grantaire supplies.

“Fantine, right,” she nods. “And get you suited for Florinian royal wear.”

“After you, my Queen,” Grantaire says.

* * *

When Grantaire wakes in the morning, it takes several seconds for his vision to clear from the blurriness of sleep. It eventually sharpens into focus, showing a young, skinny, tall ginger boy standing at the foot of his bed, arms behind his back, staring at Grantaire wake.

“Who da’fuck are you?” he slurs, a little too tired to be alarmed.

“I am your new manservant, Feuilly,” he answers. Now that Grantaire’s taken a second, it is clear that Feuilly has on the traditional manservant uniform. “I have cleaned your room, chosen your clothing, and prepared you breakfast.”

He moves over a foot, showing the large table of food that he had been cloaking.

“Holy shit,” Grantaire breathes, throwing off the covers. “Joly never did this.”

Feuilly smiles, but doesn’t reply.

“I thought I was supposed to get used to dining with the royal family,” Grantaire says, sitting down at the lone chair at the table. “Not breakfast in bed.”

“That isn’t required until you marry, sir,” Feuilly says. His posture is still stiff, and it makes Grantaire frown. “For now, I am allowed to treat you.”

“Treat yourself,” Grantaire says, reaching for what looks to be an apricot filled pastry. “This is far too much food just for myself.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Feuilly rejects, shaking his head. “This is the royal breakfast.”

“Which I am offering to you,” Grantaire counters. “Come, sit. You went to the trouble of bringing it to me.”

Feuilly hesitates, and Grantaire sees that as an invitation to keep needling.

“Come on, sit, try some. I doubt your breakfast was this good.”

“The manservant’s breakfast is grits and cheese,” Feuilly says. He still hasn’t walked over, but he’s gazing over at the food now.

“All the more reason.” Feuilly still doesn’t walk over, and Grantaire huffs. He stands, walks over the foot to Feuilly, grabs his arm, and tugs him over, literally pushing him into his vacated chair. Feuilly blinks up at him, owlishly. Grantaire grabs the plate of apricot pastries, and flops back on his bed.

“So, you’re my new manservant,” Grantaire says, watching as Feuilly carefully selects what is obviously the smallest slice of pear on the table.

“I am, sir,” he confirms, biting off the corner of the pear.

“Call me Grantaire. How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” Feuilly says, and it makes Grantaire’s breath catch. So young, and already being forced into subservience to someone else. “You are my first master.”

“Not master.” It reminds him of the one time his father took him to see the slave ships on the harbor. “I’m just,” he waves his hand around in the air. “Your friend you’re paid to do things for.”

“Paid, sir?” Feuilly says. His hand takes another pear slice, but his eyes don’t leave Grantaire.

“Surely you’re paid.” Feuilly stares at him. “At least a stipend. You have to be.”

“We are given free housing and free food, if that’s what you mean.”

“By the gods,” Grantaire breathes, shaking his head. “I’ll be sure to give you a little spending money. I’m not sure when they’re transferring my bank over to Florin, but once they do, that’ll be top priority.”

“It’s not necessary, sir,” Feuilly says, shrugging. “I like doing things for other people. I was waiting for the day I was assigned to someone.”

“You’re obviously good at it, if they assigned you to the future King-husband.” They really need to think of a gender-neutral term for the King’s spouse. No one seems willing to call him Queen, and everything else sounds ridiculous.

“Thank you,” Feuilly says, ducking his head to hide a smile. “I wanted to be.”

“Dude, you keep bringing me breakfast like this, and you’ll get the best review from me in the land.” Grantaire frowns. “Do I get to review you to someone?”

“The head maid of the castle takes complaints about manservants and the such.”

“And who takes compliments?” Feuilly stares into space, look pensive.

“I don’t know if someone does?” he hedges, sounding uncertain.

“Well, that’s as non-surprising as it is disappointing. I’ll still be sure to track her down anyway.”

“That’s not necessary, sir.”

“Eat your pear,” Grantaire advises.  


  
“So,” Grantaire starts, stretching, having eaten well beyond his fill. He eventually kept throwing food at Feuilly’s head until he ate some, and while it did make Feuilly crack his perfect ‘manservant’ demeanor, it’s hardly like Grantaire minds that. Though he could have done without the egg in his hair. “What do you think of me?”

“You’re very good, sir,” Feuilly says, and his face is just on this edge of grumpy that Grantaire doesn’t believe a word of it.

“You can be honest, you know,” he says, throwing a grape up. He misses his mouth, and it hits his nose.

Feuilly rolls his eyes, but doesn’t talk; Grantaire still considers it a win.

“So, what’s on the agenda today?”

“Your meeting with your academic tutor, sir,” Feuilly says. “And your first date with the prince this evening.”

Grantaire sighs, long and heavy. “And I suppose there’s no getting out of that?”

Feuilly hesitates. “No sir.”

“Not even if I ordered you to make a diversion so I could run away?”

Feuilly bites his lip, hand fidgeting, and Grantaire immediately feels terrible. “Never mind. How bad could tutoring be, anyway?”

* * *

As it turns out, not bad at all.

If he had Jehan as a teacher when he was young, Grantaire muses, he may have actually made himself into a proper scholar.

He’s lovely, in a quietly powerful way. His hair, long and auburn, is tied up haphazardly, the way a peasant would, and he’s in a skirt instead of the customary robe of a schoolteacher. In fact, he may be the first man he’s ever seen in a skirt - but with the fierce confidence he just emanates, he’s not overly surprised no one has told him to change. Or, if they have, if he dug their graves.

“So,” Grantaire says, squinting at his half finished ink sketch. “Where did you learn this teaching method?”

“It’s more effective for you to learn by all the senses. The ears - the short lecture I gave; the eyes - reading the passage; and the hands - drawing the first five Kings.”

“I suppose I probably wouldn’t have remembered the facial hair quite as well,” Grantaire muses. “Ah fuck,” he mutters, his hand smudging the ink. The third King of Florin now has a full beard instead of a goatee. 

“It’s okay; I’ll still hang it on the wall.” Jehan pats him on the shoulder, and Grantaire has to duck his head to hide his smile.

“How long is the lesson?” Grantaire asks. He’s not sure what Enjolras has planned for their date, but he was hoping it may be outside. It’s still midday, but if this is a many hour session like the ones in his youth, it may be too late.

“Several more hours.” Jehan grimaces in sympathy. “They would like you to know the names of all the King’s of Florin by the end of the week.”

Grantaire looks up, hand stopping. “Lucas, Louis, Gabriel, Louis II, Hugo, Gabriel II, Louis III, Maxime, Louis IV, Jean, Baptiste, Rayan, Louis V—”

“Woah,” Jehan interrupts, eyes big and wide. “How many do you know?”

“Them all.”

“How? Did you study already?” 

Grantaire shrugs. “I read a lot as a kid. I have a good memory. Went through a phase where I decided to learn all the rulers of the neighboring Kingdoms. Made it through Florin and Shilling, but I gave up halfway through Birr.”

Jehan blinks a few times, and Grantaire takes the moment to appreciate how truly green his eyes are. They deserve poetry someday, he decides, from somebody who is definitely not him.

Slowly, his mouth curves up into a smile.

“Well, well, well. It looks like we have a free morning and afternoon. Care to join me for an expedition?" 

He stands, and gives a sarcastic bow. “After you, my good sir.”

* * *

Jehan’s leading their walk down the dusty main road. Occasionally they are passed by men on horses and in carriages, none who pay either any mind.

Grantaire’s new king’s guard to replace Bossuet (Bahorel, so Feuilly told him) never ended up showing, so they’re alone. Vaguely, he knows it’s probably a bad idea, but with Jehan’s quiet company, it’s hard to worry.

He’s not talkative, but he’s damn good at making Grantaire seem so.

It’s the questions - not prying, but constant, never ending followups to little inconsequential things that he honestly doesn’t think he’s ever been asked, like what’s your favorite color, and how do you feel about berries, and what’s your shoe size?

Grantaire gets sick of himself quickly, but his genuine interest keeps him talking, even if he feels enough pressure on his heart that he knows he’s going to be thinking about this bed, wondering if he bored him or confirmed that he’s one of the least interesting people to walk the sorry dirt.

“What would you have done with your life if you could have chosen?”

Grantaire looks over at him, and then down at his own feet, lost in thought. The dust is caking his boots, and he makes a mental note to clean them before Feuilly tries.

“Honestly, I don’t know. I like a lot of things - eating, drinking, dancing, drawing, fencing, space, even studying - but I’m not actually talented at any of it. I guess just a professional drunk peasant.”

Jehan looks like he’s giving that bullshit far more consideration than it deserves, but he doesn’t say anything.

It’s quiet for several minutes, just the sound of their footsteps and the occasional bird’s tweet.

Suddenly, Jehan stops in the middle of the road, hand to his chest, a little exhale that sounds like oh.

“Hm?” Grantaire asks. “What?”

“That plant!” he says, and tugs his sleeve, guiding him to the side of the road. They bend down, and Jehan gently holds the white bloomings flowers atop a tall plant.

“Looks like parsnips.” Grantaire leans forward, closer. “Wait - is that Hemlock Water Dropwort?”

Jehan gives him an appraising look, going so far to put his hand on his hip.

“What?”

“They told me you were stupid.”

Grantaire flushes, and mentally puts up a blockade in his head so he won’t try to guess who ‘they’ may be.

“I am.”

“No.” Jehan laughs, hard enough that it sounds more like a gasp. “I’m the academic tutor for everyone over the age of eighteen in this castle and visiting. Trust me Grantaire - you are very, very far from stupid.”

There’s not much to be said to that, so he leans forward towards the plant, touching the flowers.

“Hard to believe it could kill a man in under a day.”

Jehan rolls his eyes at the misdirection, but lets himself be diverted.

“I wonder how many have died mistaking it for parsnips.”

The thought makes Grantaire uneasy, and he stands, taking a step back. He expectes Jehan to follow, but instead he digs his hand into his surprisingly deep pockets, emerging with a small pocket knife.

With blank surprise, he watches Jehan methodically snip the plant at the root and gently place it in his large bag.

He had wondered why he had brought it; perhaps this is a common occurrence.

On his knees, Jehan snips four more, one by one, placing them carefully out of sight. He stands, placing the knife back in his pocket, and brushes the dirt off his knees.

He’s not sure what his face is doing, but it’s something to cause Jehan to grin, the left side of his mouth higher.

“You never know when it might come in handy.”

He tries not to let his eyes widen.

“You know,” he says as the resume their walk. “If I didn’t know you, I might be scared of you.”

“Don’t let that stop you,” he says.

* * *

He was taking him to a little inn that has a pub attached, who, by their sign, specialize in stew and ale.

It smells like warm bread, and he can’t help but inhale as he takes his seat at a little wooden table. The chair legs are all different heights, and he spends a moment wobbling back and forth to make a little thumping noise, until he sees Jehan’s scowl and promptly stills.

“So, how do you know this place?" 

“Thénardier’s has the best ale in the land. According to your fiancee, you’re fond of it.”

Grantaire swallows, now a little surer about who had warned Jehan about his relative intelligence.

“Everything's better with some alcohol in the belly. Just dulls the world enough that everything seems so much more pleasant.”

Jehan opens his mouth to respond, and given the look in his eyes, it’s not going to be niceties, so he’s a little relieved when the waitress shows up, skirts swinging.

She’s young, quite young, but there’s a quickness to her step and a rigidness to her frame that suggests she may have lived on the streets for quite some time.

“Eponine,” Jehan greets. “How are you today?”

She just blinks, but it seems to convey something to Jehan, who just grimaces.

“Here, I have something that may make it better.” He pulls out four of the Hemlock. Eponine slides them off the table, and into her apron pouch.

“Lunch on the house,” she says, and Grantaire decides that he does not need to know. “What can I get you?”

“Whatever’s best.”

“That’s the potato stew and hard ale,” Jehan says. “Both of us, please. And join us when you get a moment.”

“My parents are currently at Wetgrove,” she says before turning back towards the kitchen.

“Did that have any meaning to you?” Grantaire asks after she’s out of earshot.

“She means she’ll come by when the food’s ready.” At his raised eyebrow, Jehan continues. “Wetgrove is a her parents’ brothel. When they’re there, they aren’t here micromanaging her, and she can take time out to talk.”

Grantaire nods, and wishes he had his ale already so he would have something to do with his hands.

“You should meet her little brother.” Jehan brightens visibly, and he doesn’t know a quick and painless way to tell him that he should never, ever be in a position to have influence on a child. Jehan’s quick though, eyes scanning the small room, and it’s not even ten seconds before he’s waving someone over.

He’s little, about to Grantaire’s knee.

“Watch yourself,” Jehan whispers. “He’s a pickpocket.”

If he’s that young and can pickpocket well enough that Grantaire can’t catch him, then he deserves whatever Grantaire’s holding on his person as a reward.

“Pleased to meet you,” he says, putting on some southern accent that Grantaire can barely understand. “Name’s Gavroche.”

“Grantaire,” he greets, before belatedly realizing he should probably give a fake name, this far away from the castle and with no security at all.

“Are you?” Eponine has returned, two mugs of ale in one hand, and balancing two bowls of stew on the other arm. “I read about you in the paper. Our new King, eh?”

“Enjolras will be your King.” It’s an important correction, somehow. “I’ll be his—”

If his awkward hand wave is supposed to be for clarification, it does a poor job.

Eponine doesn’t look impressed. Grantaire’s not surprised - he’s not impressed with himself, either.

“Okay.”

Several seconds tick by.

“I was sorry to see you back here,” Jehan says to Eponine, which sounds incredibly fucking rude to Grantaire’s ear, but Eponine just smiles.

“I was sorry to be back.”

“Me too,” Gavorche says from his seat against Grantaire’s stool. He’s playing with a Guildarian coin that must have come from Grantaire, flipping it through his fingers, and Grantaire’s suitably impressed. The kid can’t be a day over ten.

“Their parents are crooked,” Jehan explains. Grantaire nods. “Real shit, honestly.” Jehan startles, as if he’s been kicked, and the eye flick to Eponine isn’t subtle. “Anyway, she had moved out two years ago with Gavroche, but came back a couple months ago.” He turns to Eponine. “If I may ask—”

“The farm went under.” She shrugs. “With the new Guildarian tax on cattle, no one could afford to buy any. Had to butcher them and live off that money for a while. We ran out, and I just couldn’t find honest work.” She leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’d do dishonest work, but he needs a roof over his head. Not much to be done about that.”

Eponine’s lounging on their table, and she looks unbothered as Jehan pats her hand sympathetically.

Grantaire, for one, is nauseous enough that he’s considering vomiting.

“Would you prefer a job in the castle?” he blurts. Both heads turn towards him. His throat still feels thick, and he’s only slightly aware of what he just offered.

“Excuse me?” Eponine asks, retreating to stand straight.

“I’m pretty sure I have the power to offer that now.” He looks to Jehan for confirmation, who just shrugs bemusedly. “Well, I’m sure I could make it happen. If you’d like that better. Maybe being a cook, or a nurse, or a gardener, or a washer - I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

“No.” Jehan doesn’t look surprised, so he’s guessing this may have been a conversation they’ve already had. “We don’t and won’t live, or live around, that kind of lifestyle, so keep your grand gestures.” 

“Yeah, no, that’s fine, I don’t mind, it was just like, an offer—”

“Stop mumbling,” Eponine says, but her tone is noticeably softer, so he figures his blabber probably served some purpose, helped him pass some arbitrary test of not being an elitist asshole.

He takes a swig of ale.

* * *

Jehan decides that the walk back has to be academic since he was still technically supposed to be teaching even if Grantaire already did know all the material. 

And he does, actually, seem to know most of it.

Abstractly, he knew that reading through the King’s library as a mode of distraction from his pitifully boring and lonely life probably would have some kind of consequence, but he didn’t think it’d be giving a true academic the impression that he’s actually intelligent.

“I’m really not,” he denies the fourth time Jehan says so. “I just have a good memory. Memory isn’t actually being smart; I couldn’t like, make any legislation, or put anything into practice. There’s a huge gray area between intelligence and action, especially when things need to be changed, and the actual extraordinary are the people who can couple it. I’ve never managed that, nor really put any effort into trying.”

Jehan just sighs heavily, apparently distraught that Grantaire has no ambition. Well, he’s in good company with every single human being Grantaire has ever known.

Grantaire’s about to respond with some stupid quip, but Jehan stops and stiffens. Grantaire follows his gaze, and sees a man, large and burly, sprinting towards them.

He thinks about moving to step in front of Jehan, but the man has on Florianian armor, so chances are he isn’t there to murder them.

He puts his feet into fighting position, just in case.

When the man reaches them, he’s obviously winded, bent over with his hands on his knees, and almost hacking.

“Are you okay?” Jehan asks. “You sound like you have asthma.”

“A knight with asthma?” he wheezes. “Nonsense.”

“Why were you running?”

The man stands, still breathing heavily, and points at Grantaire. “I know I was late, but I figured it wouldn’t matter. How much trouble can you get into in a tutoring session?” Jehan’s eyes suddenly find something interesting in the sky. “But lo and behold - an hour late, and the new King’s bud is nowhere to be found.”

“Bud?” Grantaire repeats.

“Sorry, my Lord,” Bahorel says. “I’m not sure how to address you.”

“Bud is fine,” Grantaire says, because it is. “I take it you’re my new King’s guard?”

“Bahorel, at your service. I can recite my vows and oath to protect you -”

“Skip it.” Grantaire waves his hand. 

“Enjolras specifically picked me for this position,” Bahorel says. His breathing is finally back to normal, and they continue their walk towards the castle. “I hope I do the man proud. I don’t know why he wanted me - I’m not really known for...being a good knight.”

“Comforting,” Grantaire says.

“I’m not a bad fighter,” he backtracks, showing his sword, which even Grantaire can admit is impressively large. “I just get distracted. So, uh, things like this kind of happen.”

Grantaire doesn’t think Enjolras knows him well enough to know that he prefers some time alone, and a knight he can slip by is preferable, but he has to wonder.

“Well, I’m glad to know I’m covered if the enemy makes himself incredibly obvious first,” he says, clapping Bahorel on the back. He’s wearing armor, and his hand aches.

* * *

They get back with just enough time for supper. He’s still mostly full from his soup at Eponine’s, but the chef is talented enough that he knows he’ll still probably eat well beyond his fill. Now that he no longer has standing responsibilities as a Knight, he doesn’t need to keep in shape, so he’ll gladly gorge himself.

He takes a few minutes to at least change his clothes from the dust covered ones from their walk. Feuilly tries to help, but Grantaire waves him off. He can hear he and Bahorel outside the door having a squabble about what sounds to be law, so at least he seems to be okay with Grantaire not really wanting his service.

He finishes, and Bahorel insists on escorting him to the great hall, which Grantaire actually sort of appreciates, given he has very little idea where it is in the castle.

Most of the small council are already seated, with the addition of Combeferre and the King. They don’t seem to be waiting on him, at least, and Grantaire manages to take his seat between Combeferre and Enjolras with relative discreteness.

“How are you today, Grantaire?” Combeferre asks. His tone is so warm, and this, beyond his obvious competence, must be why he has managed to be such a high ranking diplomat at such a young age.

“I’m well,” he answers. “I just returned from my first session with Jehan.”

“What did you think of him?” Enjolras interjects. Grantaire looks over his shoulder, and Enjolras is angled towards them both.

“He’s lovely,” Grantaire answers honestly. He pauses. “He also seems to be slightly frightening.”

Combeferre smiles, eyes dancing, while Enjolras just snorts.

“He is,” Combeferre says. “He was brought to Enjolras’s attention because he was accused of witchcraft.” Grantaire can feel his eyebrows rise, but he’s not sure why, since it is completely unsurprising.

“He wasn’t actually practicing witchcraft,” Enjolras says. “He was engineering and selling his own machines, and no one could quite figure out how they worked. Hence, people assumed—"

“Witchcraft,” Grantaire finishes.

“In actuality, he’s just incredibly gifted and competent. Enjolras hired him on the spot.”

Grantaire desperately wants to ask for more details: how did the King react to that? Was it protested by the person who accused him? What position did he get at first? Did he have to work his way up to the Kingdom’s maester?

But Enjolras is drumming his fingers on the table, and Combeferre has begun peeling an orange, so he swallows his words and wishes for wine.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Enjolras says after a moment. He stands and removes himself from the table; Grantaire watches him walk over to the door, and begin chatting with one of the servers.

“That’s Azelma,” Combeferre says, noticing Grantaire’s stare. Grantaire flushes. “He likes to check in with her every couple weeks. He hired her from a restaurant in town after finding her with a black eye. She picked up and left with him immediately, and never looked back.”

“Does he do that often?”

Combeferre shrugs. “Not as often as he’d like. And people don’t accept more than you’d think.”

Grantaire doesn’t answer, thinking of Eponine.

“So.” Combeferre clears his throat. “What did you learn today?”

He sounds like a father talking to his grade school son. “Kings of Florin. A little about poisonous plants. We got off track at the end when we began talking about space.”

“How did that start?” Combeferre sounds amused, so Grantaire assumes he already probably knows.

“Jehan showed me his secret collection of books about the possibility of life outside of the planet.”

“It’s a fascinating collection.”

“Oh my gods,” Grantaire enthuses, fully turning to face Combeferre, who just looks amused. “I cannot wait to get my hands on them.”

“So, what are your opinions on the matter?”

They’ve brought the soup, which Combeferre begins eating immediately, but which Grantaire ignores. He wants his hands for gesticulating.

“I don’t even know! Okay, first off is Earth’s place. If we truly are the center of everything - the innermost sphere of the universe, surrounded by the cosmos who are piloting around us - then I see no reasons they can’t exist out there in one of the outer spheres. Of course, the usual conception is that, while we’re the innermost sphere, the outermost sphere is that belonging to the gods. If that’s the case, then it bears to logic that they’d be closer to the gods? And if that’s the case, I’m not sure why they’d want anything to do with us. If they came, then they’d either want to dominate us, because they are clearly better, or help us, which probably couldn’t be done. As they haven’t come yet, and we are this shitty, I am guessing its not the latter. Of course, there are thousands of other possibilities. I despair of myself even conceiving I could think of all the different possibilities out there. But just given the whole modern understanding of astronomy - I don’t see why there shouldn’t be exterrestrial life. I just see no proof of it. The cosmos are the same year after year - that’s how we can chart them. If there were other life, would they have never made an appearance? Then again, maybe they have, and the people just diagnosed them as lunatics!”

He’s impassioned enough that he doesn’t notice Enjolras retaking his seat next to him, staring at the back of his head for several moments wordlessly.

“—Space is basically a cornucopia of disturbing concepts, and the—”

Grantaire happens to gesticulate a little too flamboyantly, hitting Enjolras in the chest. Jumping, he turns, and upon seeing Enjolras, immediately flushes and silences, sinking in his chair.

“What were you saying?” Enjolras prompts, taking a sip of wine from his goblet. “Something about space?”

“It’s nothing,” Grantaire says quickly, taking a large gulp of wine. “Just a trifling conversation to pass the time.”

“Still the same, I’d like to hear it.”

 “I doubt it would interest you,” Grantaire mutters, hunching over his food lower and lower. He’d rather not put his face in his soup bowl, but if that’s what it takes to avoid Enjolras’ eye, so be it.

Combeferre, who has been so far silently watching the exchange, butts in before Enjolras can start whatever sentence that required such a loud huff of air. “He was talking about the possibility of life not on this planet.”

“What do you know of astronomy, Grantaire?” Enjolras asks.

“Not much.”

“Apparently something, though.” 

Grantaire swallows loudly. His nose is touching his soup; hopefully that doesn’t contaminate it. “I dabble in it outside my studies.”

“He knows more than I,” Combeferre interjects, and Grantaire sends him a glare he hopes he can feel in the depths of his soul.

“Impressive,” Enjolras says, and by gods, it sounds like he means it. “So, what do you think?”

“About?”

Enjolras sighs. “Other life, Grantaire.”

“It’s a possibility. I’m not sure.”

“You seemed to have enough opinions on it a moment before.”

This is excruciating. “I don’t wish to waste the prince’s time with trivial matters.”

“And yet you’re willing to waste the time of his chief advisor?”

This makes Grantaire startle, and he hits his knee on the underneath of the table, making the soup splatter. Combeferre clicks his tongue at him, but Enjolras’ stare is steady.

“My apologies. I’ll keep my interests to myself in the future.” He starts steadily dabbing his napkin at the spilled soup, watching the white slowly turn a pale brown.

“That’s not what I meant,” Enjolras begins, before taking a deep breath. Grantaire can physically feel Enjolras eye’s roll to the ceiling, can feel the way he lets out the breath through his teeth like a physical blow.

“Never mind,” Enjolras says, his tone a hair away from snapping. His hands move to his own napkin, twisting it and twisting it, round and round it goes.

They stay that way throughout the rest of dinner – Enjolras silent, hands twirling and twirling, and Grantaire silent, eyes tracking his every move.

* * *

Dinner passes quietly and with no more events. In very little time, the plates are being cleared, and it's time for their first bonding session.

Feuilly delivers him to Enjolras’s chamber. It’s in the exact opposite direction of his, in the very corner, in the highest tower. By the time he’s climbed the stairs, he’s winded, breaths coming out hot and heavy.

The door is dark oak, and his knocks somehow feel pitifully weak.

Enjolras swings the door open wide. With a smile, he beckons him inside.

“Welcome,” he says, stepping aside to let Grantaire pass. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

“Am I supposed to be in here, really?” Grantaire asks, only a step inside the doorway. The room is furnished near identically to his own, with a large red and gold rug underneath the bed as the only immediately noticeable difference. “Wasn’t the whole point of separate bedchambers so we don’t get into shenanigans?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Were you planning on starting shenanigans?”

He hesitates, before deciding on, “If I was planning on that, I would have drunk less wine at dinner.” He rocks back on his heels. “Anyway - what are we doing?”

“Well, the purpose is supposed to be for us to get to know each other. I thought we could go on and off, choosing activities we each like.”

He’s staring at Grantaire like he’s expecting a response, so he smiles, a little too fake, and nods. “Sure.”

“Okay.” Enjolras steps back slightly, and now Grantaire can see that he has some parchment set up in stacks in the middle of the room. Enjolras sits down near them, crossed legged, and gestures for Grantaire to follow. He does, and takes a seat opposite him, knees to his chest.

“I like folding paper.”

Grantaire blinks. “Come again?” 

“Into shapes,” Enjolras clarifies. He gestures to something behind Grantaire. He turns around, and on Enjolras’s dresser sits a collection of 3D shapes - triangles, squares, even a couple birds.

“Did someone teach you how to do that?” Grantaire asks, turning back around.

Enjolras is fiddling with a piece of paper, tapping his long, long fingers against it, pulsing it outwards. “No. I used to do it when I was a child at small council meetings - it kept my hands busy, but I could still listen.”

He’s a fidgeter, Grantaire realizes.

Enjolras hands him a piece of paper. “I’ll show you how to make a flower.”

Grantaire nods, but doesn’t answer.

“Do you like flowers?”

Grantaire shrugs.

He adores flowers. There’s something alluring about their simplicity, that something that can be beautiful by just existing.

“Fold it in half first, and then in quarters, like this.” Grantaire watches Enjolras’s hands. He lays his paper on the tiled floor and tries to replicate the movements. “Do you have a favorite flower?”

“Sunflower.”

“Okay, now see these sides?” He taps Grantaire’s paper.  “You’re going to fold them up, like this.” His hands move, but he’s still staring at Grantaire - which Grantaire only knows by the intensity that he’s avoiding the gaze. “Have you ever worked in a garden?”

“No.”

Damn it, his sides aren’t even.

“Do you want to? Fold the tips up.”

He’s following exactly, and Enjolras isn’t even watching what he’s doing to his own, but, somehow, his is still lopsided. “Maybe.”

Enjolras sighs, which is apparently his cue for giving up on prodding Grantaire into conversation.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to connect to Enjolras - it’s just that when he begins talking, he doesn’t know how to stop, and very little of what comes out of his fucking mouth deserves to be heard. Normally, he doesn’t care all that much who hears his inane ramblings - but if he’s ever to live with Enjolras comfortably, the man can’t hate him, which he’s bound to do if Grantaire lets himself speak his mind. Inferiority magnifies risk. 

So quiet it is.

 

Enjolras isn’t a bad teacher. He guides Grantaire’s hands well, patiently shows him the folds, points to his mistakes, and even helps him redo some of the more difficult sections after he’s crumbled it badly.

They are coming near the end when Enjolras tries again.

“We haven’t talked yet about how we wish to rule.”

“I don’t.” Enjolras blinks. “Want to rule, that is.”

“But, uh,” Enjolras starts slowly. “You will? There isn’t much choice in the matter.”

“You just do what you want, and I’ll follow suit. No need for any conferences with me.”

“I don’t want this to be a dictatorship in our relationship, Grantaire,” he says, his hand moving to fix Grantaire’s fold, which was apparently the wrong way. “We’re partners in this.”

“I don’t want anything to do with ruling,” Grantaire says, and it feels like he’s been repeating it all his life.

“Grantaire.” The serious note to his tone has Grantaire look up. “You should know - I’m not planning on a peaceful ruling. There’s a lot I want to do, a lot I want to change. This could get ugly - and if you’re my husband, you will be seen as a contributor, even if you choose to stay in the sidelines. Your life could be at stake.”

Grantaire swallows. “Okay.”

“Okay? That’s it?”

“I want the world to be better. I want people to have their freedom. I want the world to be fair. I just don’t really want to have anything to do with making it happen.”

Enjolras’s skeptical look cuts in a way Grantaire didn’t expect it could from someone he doesn’t know all that well. The paper lays forgotten between them.

“But you’re in a position of power to actually make it happen. You could give people those things.”

“Anybody could. We just need a savior, a martyr - there are legends and histories of ordinary people who have lead rebellions, revolutions. Hell, a schoolboy could. It isn’t the position of power - it’s the will of the person. And I don’t have it.” Enjolras sits back on his hands. “But you apparently do. So please, feel free. I’ll watch from behind.”

Enjolras is quiet. His position, elbows straight, leaning on his hands perched behind him, deages him several years. His perplexed expression doesn’t help. After a moment, he pitches forward, and grabs his flower. A few twirling motions later, and a flower, about the size of an apple, rests on his palm. He hands it over to Grantaire.

It’s lovely, in its own way.

Enjolras finishes Grantaire’s quickly and hands it over as well.

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, and stands.

“Where are you going?” Enjolras clambers up from the floor.

“Uh, I was going to head back to my room.”

“After only one?” There’s something defeated in his tone, and Grantaire hates that he may have put it there. “Well, have a good night.”  

Grantaire nods.

Enjolras’s hands are in his pockets, and he watches him leave.

* * *

He’s too disquieted to sleep, he finds.

His nerves from the evening have wreaked havoc on his poor stomach, and he finds himself lying on bed, looking at the two paper flowers on his dresser for several hours, before he finally swings his legs over the bed, admitting defeat.

The castle’s cold in the dark of the night. Grantaire shivers, holding his arms close to his chest, his footsteps echoing uncomfortably loudly as he makes his way down the corridor. The echo of his feet starts to legitimately unsettle him, so he takes a moment to toe off his shoes, and begins to walk in his stockings.

It may be ridiculous, but it does make him feel slightly better.

The moonlight from the high windows above is falling in front of his feet, and he wishes it were the time of year that the moon was outside his bedroom window.

He turns the corner and abruptly stops, because there, leaning up against a wall underneath the golden haze of a candle, is Enjolras, sitting crosslegged with a book.

Grantaire silently backpedals three steps, so he’s hidden by the corner. Enjolras obviously didn’t hear him, attention drawn by the book, and Grantaire’s socks quieted his entrance.

He peers around the corner, and manages to not feel entirely like a stalker.

He’s sitting next to a large, wooden, padlocked door; Grantaire isn’t positive, but he’s fairly sure it’s the King’s library. It’s closed at night to protect against thieves, so it’s entirely possible that Enjolras was kicked out a few hours ago.

His shoes are off, sat next to him, one on top of the other. He’s curled in on himself, hunched and improper.

He’s looks soft, but Grantaire’s sure it’s just a trick of the light. Candles dull edges - but only to your vision. The edges are still there should you try to touch.

He wants to see what book he is reading, he wants to walk around the corner, he wants to sit next to him, he wants to smile and greet him, he wants to talk about why they are both up late, he wants to know why the book was so important it couldn’t wait until the next day, he wants to know why he didn’t bring it back to his room if he already smuggled it out, he wants to get to know this husband he’ll be with the rest of his days, he wants to talk, he aches to know the man and not know of the man -

But he’s never had any illusions about his bravery.

He turns around, and heads back to his empty room.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four - a.k.a. Enjolras keeps a personal log of his experiments on what topics/approaches makes Grantaire open up or shut down and Grantaire struggles with assimilating while I use chess as a pretentious extended metaphor

A week later, Grantaire wakes up to the sound of splintering wood.

His eyes open on their own accord, and, after a moment, the world focuses. Feuilly is standing at the foot of his bed, arms crossed, frowning at something on the ground; upon the object moving slightly, Grantaire blinks into focus Bahorel, who seems to be holding the leg of a chair.

“What are you doing?” he asks, blearily sitting up.

“See, I told you that you’d wake him,” Feuilly chastises.

“Sorry sir,” Bahorel says. He stands, and yes, he is holding the leg to a chair. “Your items arrived from Guilder today. I thought you might enjoy seeing them when you woke up, but I dropped one of them.”

Grantaire sits up slightly and takes a look around.

He didn’t have many personal items in Guilder, and it shows. Apart from the broken chair, they brought a clock, what looks to be a pile of his clothes, his collection of clay mugs, and the painting of him and his mother when he was a baby.

“Did my bank account transfer?”

“Yes sire,” answers Feuilly.

“Check the top of the dresser,” he says, inclining his head. Feuilly walks over and picks up the piece of paper atop. “I made a list of people I want to give some money. Start with the people outside the castle, as that’ll be by mail, and start with Eponine. Then work your way down the list of people who work here, starting with yourself. I made a special note if the money is for something, like most of the kitchen help.”

“Sir,” Feuilly says, and just from his tone Grantaire can tell he’s going to put up a fight. Grantaire stands, hoping it will make him seem slightly more authoritative.

“Feuilly, you’re dismissed. Bring the list to the master of coin.”

Feuilly hesitates.

“You’re dismissed. Bahorel, please stay.”

Feuilly gives him a curt nod, daintily steps over the broken wood, and makes his way out the door. Bahorel stands, looking uneasy.

“I am sorry, sir—”

“I don’t care about the chair.” Grantaire flaps his hand. “I wanted to talk to you about being my guard.”

Bahorel nods.

Grantaire yawns, long and wide, and he’s becoming increasingly aware that he awoke less than two minutes ago - his hair is sticking up everywhere, his eyes hurt, and he’s starting to lose ambition to stand.

Actually, fuck it.

He falls back down on the bed and draws the covers back over him.

“Look, I appreciate the whole guard thing - but I don’t really need one. I’m just going to be hanging around the castle, wandering. We’re wasting your time and my patience by forcing you to follow me around. I hereby relinquish you of your guarding duties unless I am actually going somewhere off castle grounds.”

“That’s not protocol, sir.”

“No?” Grantaire pulls the blankets up to his chin, and rests his head on a pillow, letting his eyes drift shut. “Have you ever been a King’s guard for me before?”

A hesitation. “No.”

“Then it’s standard protocol for this King.”

“But—”

“This isn’t a condemnation about you. I just prefer to be left to my own devices. I don’t want them to think badly of you, though - I’ll tell you what. Tell them I want you to be trained in—what do you want to be trained in?”

“I—I, uh, I guess I always kind of wanted to be an archer.”

“There. Tell them I wanted you to be trained in archery before you came on full time.”

“But—”

“Grantaire is sleeping now,” he says. “Please leave a message with my manservant and I will get back to you within the day.”

There’s a long pause before he hears Bahorel’s heavy steps leave.

He snuggles further into bed, pressing his face into his pillow until he can almost no longer breathe, the heavy heat of the blankets drifting him back to sleep.

“Sir?” Feuilly has popped his head back in.

He groans into his pillow, and without lifting his head, asks, “What now?”

“I forgot to tell you when you woke. With the arrival of your items also came Guilder’s official diplomatic response to your marriage,” Feuilly says in a calm voice that could lull to sleep a crying baby, but it electrifies Grantaire, and he’s sat up before he’s even realized it, all tiredness completely fled.

“What is it? What did they say?”

Feuilly shrugs. “I wasn’t given an individual letter for you. There’s just one addressed to the small council in general.”

Grantaire can feel himself wither. “Is that standard?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

“Me neither.”

“When is the small council meeting for today?”

“When I gave him the letter, he said an emergency meeting would be held at midday.”

“Midday?” Grantaire slumps back into his pillows. He feels tired again, but a totally different form - any sleepiness is gone. He now just wants to stare at the ceiling for the rest of the day in abject silence. “Come get me when it’s time.”

* * *

He’s reading when the knock comes to his door.

“Enter,” he says, placing a finger in the pages. Jehan had lent it to him - it was a the history of poisonous plants in Florin.

Instead of Feuilly, as he expected, Enjolras takes a step in. Grantaire drops the book in surprise, and Enjolras’s eyes track it falling.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire greets, surprised. “To what do I owe this visit?”

He’s in his royal wear, this piece a deep purple, and it offsets the sharp, light blue of his eyes so well that Grantaire finds himself almost lost for thought.

Enjolras is just a person - Grantaire knows that intellectually - but he’s just so goddamn beautiful, like a heavenly mirage in a painting of the gods, that it’s hard to think of him as so. His posture is also so spear-straight that Grantaire becomes a little too aware of how slouched he is, curled up to read, and he immediately straightens.

Enjolras is propping the door open with his foot, one hand on the wood frame.  “The council meeting is in about ten minutes. I thought I could accompany you to the chamber.”

Grantaire is 80% this is to be sure he makes it on time, but he tips his head and says “thank you” regardless.

Enjolras nods. He’s fiddling his free hand back and forth, and Grantaire can faintly hear where he’s scratching his thumbnail with his pointer finger.

Grantaire wishes they could skip this part, and just wake up with the familiarity of years.

Instead, they are stuck with Enjolras shifting his weight for several moments, before finally asking, “May I sit until then?” and Grantaire inwardly wincing that he didn’t even think to offer.

“Be my guest,” Grantaire answers.

Enjolras lets the door close behind him and takes a seat on Grantaire’s bed. He’s so short his legs don’t quite reach the floor, and there’s something in his gaze that sets Grantaire’s heart pounding.

“Are you ready?”

“For what? To hear someone read off a scroll?”

Enjolras sighs, not audible but visible. “To hear your home’s response to all this.”

“I already know what they think,” Grantaire says tiredly. “It doesn’t matter to me much what they _say._ ”

“You should. They could ask for you back, terminate the agreement.”

Grantaire lets his head fall back against the chair, eyes to the ceiling. “They aren’t going to ask for me back.”

“How do you know?”

“Because then they’d have to have me _back._ ”

“Then what do you think they’ll do?”

“I don’t know.” There’s a fly on the ceiling, buzzing softly. “Probably retroactively said this was all their idea in the first place. The King hates to admit to failure far more than he hates rethinking alliances.”

Enjolras is quiet on his bed.

The fly has found a place on the ceiling to sit, it seems.

“You should really reconsider your stance on the small council meetings,” Enjolras says. Grantaire rolls his head so he’s in his line of vision.

“Why?”

“You obviously have political insight into Guilder we don’t. The Hand is already drafting letters to other countries, asking them if they have anyone eligible they’d still like to be considered, because the entire small council is fully expecting Guilder to rescind you.”

“Knowing they hate me isn’t the same as knowing political knowledge.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire interrupts. “Can we not talk about politics, please?”

“Then what would you like to talk about? Enjolras asks.

Grantaire pretends to think about it. “You can pick,” he says, the forced magnanimity in his voice making Enjolras slightly huff. He sits up in his seat, turning slightly, and gives Enjolras his full attention.  

“I read up a little bit on what you were talking about with space,” Enjolras begins, and, of all possible conversation starters, that was very far on the list from what Grantaire was expecting. “I had a question about the celestial spheres.”

“I’m no expert,” Grantaire warns, intrigued despite his words.

“It’s more of an opinion question. That theory is that there are spheres in the cosmos, and the further out the sphere, the closer we get to the gods, correct?”

Grantaire nods.

“Well, then, how far out does that work? If we lived in trees, would we be more moral? If we traveled the skies, like birds?”

“I think the theory is that the Earth is all in one sphere.”

“How do they figure?”

“Well, if it wasn’t, birds would be more moral than humans.”

Enjolras stares, like he’s waiting for more to that sentence, before prompting, “And?”

“And — dude, have you ever met a pigeon?”

“Geese are worse than pigeons,” Enjolras points out. “And they are mostly land birds. Lends itself to the theory.”

“Yeah, but ducks are shorter than geese.”

“And?”

“And?” Grantaire laughs, despite himself. “Ducks are obviously superior to geese.”

“Why?” Enjolras counters.

Grantaire is considering where to start with his argument, the waddle or the lack of teeth on the tongues, before he decides on, “Have you ever been chased by a duck?”

“No.”

“The point stands.”

Enjolras smiles. “With that logic, any bird that flies is more moral than a land bird.”

“True - an eagle would be superior to a duck, a crow better than an emu.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire laughs. “This is why the theory all of Earth is in one sphere - this is all nonsense.”

Enjolras cocks his head, and he starts tapping his feet against the bed. “Going back to the original theory — if we left the Earth and traveled the skies, would we be more moral? More god-like?”

“That’s the theory,” Grantaire affirms with a nod.

“And how would that work?” He talks like he argues; with a singular focus that makes the background just fade. “If we sent someone to space, somehow, would they become a better person?”

“I think I read that _a_ theory is that questions of the universe simply become clearer the further you get from Earth. When you get closer, understanding starts to cloud again and you forget what you learned. Now, what I’d like to know is if you write down the secrets of the universe when you’re out there, and come back down, would we suddenly understand the gods?” He’s getting animated now. “Then, is it an imperative of the gods to make sure we don’t figure out space travel? Is the reason why scientific endeavors are seen as an opposite of religious belief not due to inconsistencies of their narrative but due to a purposeful clouding so the gods can keep the illusion of their alleged superiority over us?”

Enjolras blinks, like he’s never thought of that before. After a thoughtful moment he replies, “Philosophy is easier when you don’t believe in gods.”

“Not really,” Grantaire counters. “With a god the reason for existence is a want to be loved, which is understandable. Without that — you have to battle against meaninglessness. It’s easier to fight with something that exists.”

Enjolras cocks his head in agreement. “You’re right.”

Two words Grantaire has not heard pass anyone’s lips in probably a decade. It’s disconcerting, truly, to be taken seriously.

Grantaire’s trying to think of a way to continue the conversation when Feuilly opens the door. He startles slightly at the sight of Enjolras, and he fumbles the mug he was holding in his hand, dropping it, and shatters on the ground.

“I am so sorry, sirs,” he apologizes immediately, going down to his knees to clean it. Grantaire makes to stand up, but before he can manage it, Enjolras has slid off the bed, and is kneeling next to Feuilly.

“Oh no, I can clean it sir—” Feuilly starts, but Enjolras interrupts with a “Nonsense.”

Grantaire watches as Enjolras takes off his shoe and uses it as a broom, sweeping the pieces into a small pile.

“Thank you,” Feuilly mutters. “I’ll come back with a disposal unit.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Enjolras says, offering Feuilly a smile. Feuilly cautiously smiles back.

“What was that, anyway?” Grantaire asks.

“Oh, it was one of your mead mugs that just arrived. It smelled, so I took it to the kitchen for a thorough cleaning,” Feuilly says, and he’s back to looking guilty.

Grantaire doesn’t particularly care, but he is wondering about the trend of losing mugs by manservents. He wonders if they may be subtly making a comment on his drinking habits.

“Ah well, there’s always more. Were you just coming to deliver it?”

“That, and the small council meeting is set to begin. It is part of my job to make sure Grantaire is aware.”

“Thank you, Feuilly,” Enjolras says. Grantaire wasn’t aware he knew Feuilly’s name. “Shall we?”

“I’ll meet you outside in a moment,” Grantaire says. Enjolras nods and departs.

“Feuilly,” Grantaire says, beckoning him over. “Please don’t worry over the mug. It’s not a big deal.”

“It was one of your only ones from Guilder,” Feuilly says, like Grantaire wasn’t aware of that.

“Yes. And you know where I got it?”

“No, sir.” 

“Me neither. So who cares where it’s from?”

Feuilly’s mouth is starting to curl into a smile, so Grantaire figures this was a success.

“It was just embarrassing to do it in front of the Crown Prince. He’ll one day be King, with authority over thousands and thousands of people, with the ability to make and pass any law he wants - and now he knows me as the clumsy servant. I don’t want to go back to my family farm.”

“He knows you as my manservant,” Grantaire corrects. “And if he has a problem with you, which he doesn’t, he’ll have to go through me.”

He grips Feuilly’s shoulder, and then leaves.

Enjolras is leaning against the wall, waiting, and Feuilly’s little speech reminds him that this is the most powerful man in the Kingdom, waiting on him.

He supposes he could, if he wanted, get a power trip out of it, but he just feels bad.

“Ready?”

Grantaire nods.

Three steps in, and Enjolras says, “So, I had a few bills I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Thanks, but there’s something more enjoyable I have to do tonight. Like, eat a bowl of hair.”

“Excuse me?” Enjolras says, voice sharpening, and he stops in his tracks. Grantaire stops a few feet in front of him. He blankly gazes at a portrait of queen on the wall, and wonders why nothing good can seem to last.

“Isn’t there someone else who can do that?” Grantaire tries. “Combeferre? Your manservant? Your father? An overly patient squirrel?”

Enjolras stares, his focused eyes now more disconcerting than flattering.

“I’m sorry, do you have a problem with me?” Enjolras asks, a touch away from snapping.

“What?” Grantaire frowns. “No, of course not.”

“Are you sure?” Enjolras presses.

Grantaire feels like he’s already answered this question already and wonders why he has to do so again. It’s not like a conversation about birds is going to change his mind. “I’m sure.”

Enjolras crosses his arms and his jaw locks. He starts walking again silently, and Grantaire follows in his wake to the chamber.

* * *

Fuck, even the King is there.

They are all already seated, and Grantaire wonders how early they must come to all these meetings, and if it’s just so they can look down on him as he enters and stare scornfully as he takes his seat.

Enjolras sits beside him.

When the noise of entering stops, the King nods to the Hand, who stands. He’s holding a scroll.

“Guilder has been an enemy of Florin for longer than any our fathers, grandfathers, or grandfather’s grandfather’s have been around. This is the first diplomatic marriage between our countries - so, whatever is in this scroll, may change our interactions with them forever. We have a few different things already in motion based on our assumptions, but this will truly set the tone for the future.”

Grantaire wonders about what the meeting drafting the statement must have looked like. The must have been in a tizzy when they heard. He could just imagine them around the table, each yelling in order, shouting and shouting without being heard. He wonders if they knew what Florin’s purpose in choosing him was - if they saw it as a further insult, choosing an embarrassing joke to be the most famous diplomatic representative for their country and as a peacewaver for their warring nations, or if they saw it for what it was - attempted progress.

“Given this is Grantaire’s homeland, we thought you could read the response.”

Grantaire does _not_ want to read the scroll. This is likely to be humiliating. It’s passed to him, and he says that oh so familiar red seal, their sigil of a buttercup in a horse’s mouth stamped on, holding the scroll closed.

He breaks it with a swift hand, and rolls open the paper.

He notices the handwriting before the words. It was written by the King himself, not scribed by someone else - this must have been an ordeal.

Everyone is staring at him, so he clears his throat, and begins.

“To the King of Florin and the Esteemed Small Council: Greetings from Guilder, the beautiful land of wheat and milk,” goddamn them for still using that opener, he told them it sounded pretentious about sixteen different times. “We hear your Prince has chosen Sir Knight Grantaire to be his wedded. Grantaire is the son of one of our most revered, esteemed, and beloved Generals of all time. He led us to victory for twenty years, and served as the King’s guard and as Hand of the King faithfully for twenty more. His name will forever be cherished in the Kingdom.”

This, this is Grantaire’s personal hell.

“Grantaire has served on the small council in his stead since his passing. We trust you appreciate how valuable he is to us, and how much we are losing.”

He barely resists the urge to snort. He clears his throat, and continues.

“Hopefully the gesture of sending such an important man as Grantaire was not lost on you - we have taken the first step towards peace between our two countries. Any non-compliance, violence, or non-acceptance towards him from the government will be seen as an act of aggression against Guilder and a refusal of peace.

“There is no need to send him back for diplomatic visits - we hope he fully assimilates as a Florinian. With respect, The King of Guilder.”

Grantaire, is, begrudgingly, impressed, if not overly surprised. He puts the scroll on the table. The wine is placed on the other end, by the Hand, far enough that he’d have to get up to pour it, and he wonders if that’s intentional, or if the Hand also thought he’d probably need wine to get through this ordeal.

“Well, Grantaire,” the King says after a moment. “Welcome to our family.”

* * *

The next few days are strangely tense, the reshifting of frames of mind towards the future seems to have everyone on edge.

Enjolras seems to be no exception, if the pained smile he greets Grantaire with is any indication.

“I’ll take black,” Grantaire offers, taking a seat in a wooden chair next to the board. “You can have white.”

Enjolras nods. “Forewarning - the queen on my set doesn’t have its crown. I broke it off one night on accident.”

“Doing what?” Grantaire asks.

The board is still in formation of the previous game where black obviously had its ass kicked. Grantaire can’t help but wonder who the person on the other side had been.

“I was just angry about a small council meeting. Threw the piece at the wall.”

Grantaire rubs the top of the queen. The head was without paint, but otherwise, it was a clean break.

“It’s good it wasn’t ruined. Can’t much play the game without her,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire puts the piece back on the board, next to his king.

“I don’t know. I once won a game where I lost the queen to the opponent’s king. Brought it back with a random pawn.”

Enjolras has finished resetting his side of the board. His arms are crossed in front of him on the table, and he looks so oddly composed and serious for the situation. “The queen can kill the king. Not the other way around.”

“Depends how stupid the person with the queen is.”

Enjolras goes to retort, but clearly thinks better of his response, shaking his head and then gesturing towards the board. “Are you ready?”

“My liege,” Grantaire says, and it makes Enjolras roll his eyes, but it's possibly not 100% in exasperation, so he tries not to let it smart.

The first few moves are usually boring and relatively the same no matter what strategy you’re using, so Enjolras seems to find it a good time to make small talk.

“How has the move been treating you?”

It takes Grantaire a second longer than it should to put together that he means from Guilder to Florin, and not the knight he just moved to A3.

“Fine,” he shrugs. “It seems everything has finally been straightened out - finances, servants, the works.”

“Settling in then,” Enjolras confirms, and Grantaire nods.

“That’s good.”

Like most things in his life, Grantaire’s not terrible at chess, but he’s not overly adept at it, either. He certainly isn’t going to win if he’s splitting his attention between future moves and staring at Enjolras’s mouth.

It’s quiet as he stares at the board. Making the original plan is never hard for him - it’s the follow through that always has him stuttering.

He moves the queen further towards Enjolras’s side.

“And Feuilly? How is he?”

“Better than I deserve,” Grantaire answers, fingers starting to tap on his thighs.

Enjolras nods once, and looks down at the board. His hand is curling back and forth subconsciously.

“I only ask because you seem...I’m not sure. Slightly sullen around him.”

Grantaire hadn’t realized that. He’s going to have to apologize to Feuilly. “I don’t mean to be. It’s just that the other manservant, Joly, was my best friend.”

“You could have asked him to stay,” Enjolras says, and it comes out as a question, not a rebuke. “We would have allowed it.”

“His best friend was my knight, Bossuet, who wasn’t allowed to stay. I’m not the _nicest_ person, but I’m not going to take someone away from their home and their loved one in one swoop.”

Enjolras picks up his rook in his hand, slowly spinning it between his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually. He puts the rook back where it was and moves a pawn forward. Grantaire frowns - the movement seems at random.

“It is what it is.”

“I’m sorry that it is what it is, though. It’s not fair.”

“No,” Grantaire concedes. “But on the list of unfair things in the world, moving to a castle where I’m fed and clothed and treated like a King ranks rather low.”

Enjolras tilts his head in acknowledgement, and his whole head of hair moves with him. “Regardless, I hope you make close friends soon.”

“Working on it,” Grantaire answers, thinking of Courfeyrac.

Enjolras twirls a bishop in his fingers once before setting it down, taking one of Grantaire’s pawns.

“Good. I want this to work. Is there anything else you think you or I could do to make it easier?”

“Anything more _I_ could do?” Grantaire repeats. He sits back in his chair, eyes wide and mouth parted slightly. “I’m already here,” Grantaire says. The rest of the sentence, _isn’t that enough,_ goes unspoken, but not unheard.

Enjolras glances down, steadily staring at the chess board with unfocused eyes.

The seconds tick.

“It’s your move,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras nods and moves his king forward a square.

 

The game is a draw, to Grantaire’s astonishment. He’s never had a game go down to just the kings before - but what do you know, there it was.

“That was fun,” Enjolras said. His tone is just a touch too aloof - and, suddenly, Grantaire’s quite suspicious that Enjolras threw the game to make him feel better. He’s not sure of Enjolras’s talent at it, and it’d take a lot to orchestrate a perfect draw.

Enjolras stands and stretches his hands above his head. Grantaire lets his imagination conjure up pleasant images for several seconds, but as much as he’d like to stare at Enjolras so at home, this is hardly the time. He clears his throat and turns to the chess set, resetting it.

“Time to head out, then?”

Enjolras hums. “What got you into chess?”

That seems to be a ‘no,’ then. “Oh, my father forced me to learn when I was young. Took to playing it in taverns for something to do.”

“Forced?” Enjolras repeats. Rain has finally stopped pelting at the window. It’ll be muddy for days, but the hot sun is now shining from behind the clouds, and it’s getting in Grantaire’s eyes. He takes a step back into the shadow. Enjolras is still in the rays; he wonders if it’s warm.

“I rather hate chess, honestly.”

Enjolras’s stare is piercing, and Grantaire can’t help but shuffle his feet. “Then why did you choose it?”

Grantaire hates this, hates this so much - no matter what he does, the compromises he tries to make, the best parts of himself he tries to put forward, the screen of sophistication he keeps in front of his face - he still is found lacking in every conversation it seems.

“I thought you’d like it.”

“But what did _you_ want to do? This is supposed to be about us showing each other what we do on our free time.” 

“I do play this in taverns on my free time,” Grantaire points out, and at Enjolras’s annoyed head shake, he adds, “I usually just spend all day outside. I didn’t think you’d want to be out there, given the mud.”

“I wouldn’t have minded going outside, Grantaire,” he says. He sounds so exasperated, like he’s dealing with a child who drew all over the walls, and Grantaire can’t stop the withering feeling in his soul.

“I just didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“It’s not about—” Enjolras huffs. “Okay, no. We’re going to go outside.”  


“Well?” Enjolras demands the second they are outside the door. They haven’t even made it down the steps. “What now?”

It’s ridiculous enough to almost make Grantaire laugh, like a little child who sat down in art class with a paintbrush in hand and threw a temper tantrum because he didn’t immediately know how to make a DaVinci.

His arms are crossed and his feet are tapping, and, for the first time yet, Grantaire isn’t the one at a disadvantage, isn’t like a frog looking up at the sun.

“Whatever you want.”

“What do you like to do?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Lots of things.”

“Pick one.”

“Horses,” Grantaire decides, remembering Courfeyrac. It’s still early in the day, the sun not even midway in the sky. “Let’s ride horses.”

* * *

The stable door lock is large and bronze, but the small key Courfeyrac had given Grantaire works immediately, the door sliding open, scaring the birds on the rafters into flight.

Light streams in from the windows above the stalls, hitting Enjolras’s face. They walk further in, their feet kicking up dust from the dirt path.

Courfeyrac is nowhere to seen, and neither are the horses.

“The stalls for the Royal Family horses are all attached to the same paddock,” Enjolras explains at Grantaire’s confused searching. “If you go in the stall, and your horse knows you, he should come.”

To demonstrate, Enjolras lets himself in a stall. The back wall slides open at his tug, revealing a large paddock, far too large for the six horses occupying it. They’re tiny, only specs on the hill.

Enjolras whistles, long and loud, making Grantaire and the cat sleeping outside the stall startle.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire says to the cat. “Go back to sleep.”

Enjolras doesn’t appear to hear, drumming his fingers on the paddock door, waiting.

A moment later, Grantaire can definitely tell that a small horse is making his way over. As it gets closer, Grantaire notices it’s the small palomino he saw on his first day, the one next to Potato with the stupid forelock.

The horse stops a foot from Enjolras, who pets him on the nose several times. The horse follows him into the stall, stopping at the hay bale in the corner.

Enjolras beckons Grantaire in. He goes.

The horse is short, but lovely; it’s coat is slightly muddy but most definitely cared for, soft and shiny. It radiates ‘well-bred’ in a way that only truly expensive animals can.

But, then again, it is just an animal, and promptly nibbles on Grantaire’s fingers before snorting some mucus on his hand, flipping its mane, and starting to eat.

“He’s beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, and gives him a hard pat. “I should spend more time with him, but I get caught up in my own affairs too much. Courfeyrac has full permission to keep him in shape for me.”

“Did he also cut the forelock like that?” Grantaire says, half joking and half genuinely curious. He’s a bit taken aback by how Enjolras’s entire face shadows.

It takes a moment, but Grantaire realizes he’s embarrassed.

“You?” he guesses.

“It was getting into his eyes!” Enjolras is so defensive - his tone, his crossed arms, his posture in front of the horse - it’s just far more ridiculous and petulant than Grantaire would have ever expected from him, and something about it just has Grantaire’s mouth turning up, a ripple of fondness going through him.

Hero worship is one thing, but actually _fondness_ for someone’s personality, actually liking them for being an individual - that’s not something he expected to get to with Enjolras, at least not nearly this quickly.

It’s worrisome.

Respect and worship he can handle for a husband; actual love, and unrequited pining, isn’t going to make the next fifty years fun.

“I’m sure he appreciates it,” Grantaire says finally, giving the horse a final hard pat.

“Go get your horse,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire has to hide his smile at how petulant he still sounds.

 

Grantaire did not anticipate how embarrassing it would be for Potato to completely ignore him. He ends up having to walk to the end of the paddock, his boots covered and squelching in the mud, and his legs are starting to burn.

“You,” he says to her, who is contentedly grazing, tail twitching, grey-coat covered in mud, and completely ignoring him. “Are still cute. But this was unnecessary.”

She turns from him slightly, and Grantaire’s sure he shouldn’t feel offended, even though he definitely does anyway.

He slips a lead rope around her neck, tying it like a lasso. He pulls, and she gives up immediately, turning to follow him.

“Thanks, Potato,” he says.

She dips her head, and Grantaire takes it as a welcome.

 

By the time Grantaire’s back with her, Courfeyrac is there with his grooming kit, waiting with Enjolras by the door.

“See you got her here.” Courfeyrac gives her a pat on the head. “She hates coming in - she usually plays keep away with me.”

That slightly mollifies Grantaire’s bruised ego.

“By the way, Grantaire - if you don’t want to go get her, that’s my job. As the royal stablehand, I can get her, groom her, tack her - just find me and say you want to ride. Or even send a note with a servant.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I didn’t think you did,” Courfeyrac said pointedly, staring at Enjolras, who rolls his eyes and looks away. Grantaire’s sure he missed some sort of contextual conversation and immediately decides to agonize over it at night.

After a moment of intense silent communication, Courfeyrac sighs, and reaches for Potato’s lead. “She’s really muddy. Let me wash her legs off, and you guys can tack up Horsie. Enjolras usually likes doing that himself.”

Grantaire nods in acquiescence, because what else is he supposed to do.

Courfeyrac takes Potato’s lead and clicks his mouth, and, obediently, Potato follows him outside.

Enjolras ties his horse’s’ lead to a stall door, a quick-release-knot that tells Grantaire he’s fairly familiar with stable procedure.

Grantaire pets the horse while it stands calmly and waits for Enjolras to emerge from the tack stall. He does a moment later, arms full of equipment, and wordlessly hands Grantaire the saddle pad. He throws it over the horse’s back, and as he’s straightening it, he sees the embroiderment. His hands pause.

“Horsie?”

“Hm?” Enjolras says from his position on the ground, straightening the bridle.

“Your horse’s name is _Horsie?”_

Enjolras looks up. He frowns. “Courfeyrac didn’t tell you?”

“Not explicitly.”

“Oh.” Enjolras stands, straightening. His hands are still fiddling with the chin strap on the bridle. “He was the colt of my parent’s horses, Maximus and Helenatia. They gave me full naming privileges.”

“And you came up with Horsie?” Grantaire prods, when it doesn’t look like Enjolras is going to continue.

“I’m not exactly creative.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to respond, but, at that moment, Courfeyrac arrives back with Potato, and Grantaire promptly shuts his mouth.

* * *

It’s clear after about six minutes that Enjolras is not much of an outdoorsman.

They’ve barely made it onto the woods path before Grantaire can hear Enjolras start to grumble. It’s most likely non-intentional, just a grunt when a tree branch hits into his face, a sigh when he swats a mosquito away, a cluck when a bird flies in front of his face. It’s enough to distract Grantaire, though, who was thoroughly enjoying the warm sunlight streaking through the trees.

“We can go back if you’re not enjoying yourself,” Grantaire offers.

Enjolras twists around in his saddle, most likely cracking his back, and frowns at him. Horsie walks on, oblivious.

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?”

“Getting to know one another.” Enjolras clicks his tongue loudly, and Horsie obediently moves on from the raspberry plant he had stopped to eat.

“And how are we doing that walking single file on a path?” questions Grantaire, and then thoroughly wishes he didn’t, because it makes Enjolras turn back around, stop Horsie, and, rather adeptly, maneuver him back so he’s standing at Potato’s side.

She doesn’t seem to care beyond a slight head jiggle.

“You’re right. Let’s talk.”

He nudges Horsie to move on, and Potato falls into step like she was trained to do so. Which, Grantaire realizes, she may have been - he knows little to nothing about Guilder’s training facilities.

“Well, what would you like to talk about?” Enjolras asks. He’s so goddamn intense all the time, such a single-minded focus that Grantaire just can’t keep his gaze, and instead watches his hands fiddle with the reins.

“I don’t know. Tell me about yourself.”

“This is supposed to be a dialogue,” Enjolras points out.

“Well, I’ll make worthy commentary on your childhood,” says Grantaire, and Enjolras just makes a sound in response that Grantaire is helpless to interpret. When he doesn’t immediately begin speaking, Grantaire prods, “Go on, then.”

“There isn’t a lot to say. I’ve grown up in this castle, with these rulers, and this staff, in my personal room, with my teachers, and etc., my whole life. What you see is what you get.”

Grantaire is personally quite curious how you get what he sees, a man who grew up to live down his name instead of live up to it, a man so different it has to be deliberate.

That doesn’t seem to be a safe path, so he chose the much safer and still curious, “Tell me about Combeferre and you. Did you grow up together?”

“I want to hear about you,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire does not want Enjolras to hear about him, so he just says, “And I you. So - Combeferre?”

He breathes. “Fine. We didn’t grow up together.” Potato stumbles, and Enjolras waits the second for her to catch back up to continue. “He moved here when he was sixteen to study in our citadel. We met when I went to the library for some information on basements - it was for a bill, don’t ask - and he worked in the records section. I asked him a couple questions, and he sat down and talked straight for four hours.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“And what?” Grantaire asks, genuinely curious. “You decided to keep him?”

“Essentially,” Enjolras nods, a small smile breaking out. “I kept coming back, and, eventually, when I was old enough, I was allowed to appoint him on my personal staff.”

“So what was it about him that made you come back?”

Enjolras considers the question carefully. “He talked to me.”

“You talk to dozens of people a day,” Grantaire says, confused.

“No, I mean - he just talked _at_ me. I, well.” He sighs, long and hard, and the next portion is said while looking at his saddle. “I grew up lonely, in truth. After my cousin Marius moved away, I just, plainly, did not have friends. This environment doesn’t lend to them.” Boy does Grantaire understand that one. “I had no one for a long time, and, really, all I wanted was someone who would just engage with me, even if it was about drainage in basements.”

“Did he know anything about government at that point?”

“He knew a little bit about everything. We gave him the libraries to know a lot a bit about everything.” That is unsurprising news if Grantaire has ever heard it. “He’ll be my Hand, for sure, but, moreover, he’s my friend first.” He rolls his eyes. “Maybe I’m his second, if Courfeyrac counts.”

“That’s nice,” Grantaire says lamely, because it sort of is, and because he doesn’t really have any wisdom to espouse on this one.

“Did you grow up with friends?”

It’s a blunter question than what is probably appropriate, but fuck if Grantaire cares about politeness.

“Joly,” he answers. “And my grandmother, for a few years when I was young.”

“A good grandparent,” Enjolras muses. “I would have liked that.”

“Mmm,” Grantaire not-replies.

They’re getting deeper into the woods now, Enjolras leading the way, and he has absolutely no idea where they are or where they are headed, but he’s confident enough that Enjolras probably won’t strand them in the middle of nowhere with no food.

It’s a pretty forest, green and alive with the sounds of animals, and he’s so distracted by a bird’s nest that he almost misses Enjolras’s elaboration.

“My grandmothers both died before I was born.”

Enjolras seems determined to keep the conversation flowing, which, Grantaire can respect if not completely comply with. “Ah?”

“Yeah. I’ve heard my dad’s mother was rather kind. But my mom’s—” Enjolras shakes his head. “She died two years before I was born. I asked my mother, once, what she was like. She said, ‘Everyone who ever met her was worse off after the experience. She had a ruining touch.’

“That’s what I don’t want to be. I know my reach is limited. I know I’ll never change the world, or other countries, or even probably individual people’s lives. I might not make a lasting difference, I may not make our country what it should be. I may not be great. But I will still meet hundreds of people in my lifetime. I will be in contact and influence individuals. And all I want is to not be my grandmother - I want people to be better off after meeting me. If that’s the only difference I make, what a difference that would be."

Enjolras looks over at Grantaire, who is helplessly looking back, slightly dumbfounded at the political, ninety degree turn the conversation took. Enjolras looks expectant, and Grantaire has no idea what answer he’s looking for, so he just weakly replies, “Okay.”

Enjolras waits a moment, but Grantaire has nothing add.

“Okay then,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire gets the horrible feeling he has disappointed him in some way.

Not two minutes later, Enjolras breaks the awful, awkward silence. “This path we’ve been on is a circle - we’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The knot in Grantaire’s chest tightens.

* * *

Enjolras dismounts. Courfeyrac reaches to take the reins, but Enjolras holds them back, and says, “I’d like to give Horsie a sponge down myself, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac replies. “Grantaire?”

“I could use the help,” Grantaire says, which really means, ‘I could use some company.’

“Okay then, sire.”

Courfeyrac leads Potato back to her stall, quickly releases her from the bridle and tying her to the stall door.

“Hand me the water bucket, Grantaire,” he asks.

There’s one by the door, and Grantaire hands it over. “Nice bucket. Hard oak, well crafted.”

“You know woodworking?” Courfeyrac asks, bending over slightly to loosen her girth. The saddle slides off, and Grantaire takes it off his hands, placing it beside the door. Now that she’s bare, Courfeyrac stoops down to retrieve the sponge from the bucket.

“I did this and that of everything for a few years. Oak is hard as shit to work with, so I appreciate the craftsmanship. See, you need a lot of patience that I don’t really have to work with oak - it responds way better to finesse than brute strength. For instance, when routing an edge on a piece of oak, rather than routing the entire profile in one pass, it is much more preferable to cut the profile in two or three passes.

“You also have to pay attention to the graining - they tend to be heavily grained, so they split and chip easily when on the block. I did that like forty times when trying to make a clock. Let me tell you, it is impossible to carve a clock ornament of the gods to truly worship to when you can’t seem to get the nose straight and the damn thing keeps chipping. So, it helps if your tools are extremely sharp. It’s a hardwood that will dull tools more quickly, so if you keep a knife on you and a sharpening rock, you’ll do far better.

“I learned the hard way that it burns easily too. I lost my cutting tool’s temper, and let me tell you, do you know when you want to piss off your teacher who has an array of woodworking tools? Never, that’s when. Very easy statistic to remember.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire can see Enjolras leaning up against the door, arms crossed silently observing. Startling, Grantaire abruptly falls silent.

“Please,” Enjolras says, pushing himself off the wall, advancing towards Grantaire. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Grantaire stays silent.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation, Grantaire,” Enjolras says gently, coming to a stop in front of him. “By all means – continue.”

“That’s all right,” Grantaire mumbles, looking over his shoulder, away from Enjolras. “I wasn’t saying anything important.”

Enjolras huffs an annoyed breath. “When have I given you the impression it has to be important?” Grantaire frowns. “You can talk about whatever the hell you want, I’m not—”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac interrupts. “That’s enough.”

Grantaire’s eyes flit back and forth, watching their silent communication. He’s past the time when a stable hand reprimanding the crown Prince surprises him, but the clear latitude at which Enjolras apparently perceives them is astounding.

Enjolras sighs, lifting a hand through his hair. “I suppose I will leave you two to it, then. Courfeyrac, Horsie is sponged down, but still needs to be turned out. Grantaire, remember the small council meeting is tonight. Don’t be late.”

And Enjolras leaves as he comes, with purpose in his step, a straight back, and giving Grantaire a heaping spoon of inadequacy.

“You shouldn’t be so frightened of him,” Courfeyrac offers after a moment. Grantaire raises his brow, and Courfeyrac looks on, unabashed. “I’m serious,” he continues. “Enjolras is, uh, intense, but at his core, all he wants is everyone to succeed and be happy.”

“And how am I going to do that at a small council meeting?” Grantaire counters, knowing his evading the point. Courfeyrac knows it too, if his snort is any indication.

“He’s not that hard to get along with once you understand one another. And I think he’d like you.”

This time, it’s Grantaire who snorts. “Why? I’m not charming—”

“You are.”

“Not handsome—”

“Debatable and not important.”

“Stupid as fuck—”

“The last ten minutes certainly disprove that.”

“Apathetic about all the wrong things—”

“Then change.”

“And completely unlikeable personality.”

“Wrong.”

“Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says cheerily. “I’d appreciate it if you shut up.”

“Don’t you get tired of constantly undervaluing yourself?” Courfeyrac asks, which is unfuckingfair, because Courfeyrac has had a total of three conversations with Grantaire, there’s absolutely no way he knows Grantaire’s relative lack of worth. The fact that he’s spent this long with Grantaire and decided there was something there worth arguing for is far more than Grantaire would ever expect or has had before, and just the thought of it makes something in the general vicinity of his chest warm and glow, but it doesn’t change the fact that Courfeyrac’s wrong, wong, wrong.

“Can we stop talking about me? Please?”

“Of course, sire,” Courfeyrac says, bowing his head, and Grantaire’s not entirely sure if he’s serious or if that’s meant as a joke, so he just rolls his eyes.

Courfeyrac picks up a brush to get started on Potato, who has been obliviously eating hay for the entirety of the conversation.

Grantaire could really get behind being a horse, he thinks.

He pets her on the neck several times. He watches Courfeyrac start to brush her down, and is struck with a thought.  

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac says, sounding deeply amused. It occurs to Grantaire after the fact that he probably doesn’t need to ask permission.

“Combeferre.” And the way Courfeyrac drops Grantaire’s gaze immediately for Potato’s flank tells Grantaire what he was going to ask. “That’s a thing, then?”

Courfeyrac’s grip noticeably tightens on the brush. “For me.”

“For you?” Grantaire repeats, his voice hinting at incredulous. Not that he’s a master of emotions, the past week at Castle de Enjolras should be plenty of indication towards that, but Combeferre’s excitement, little comments by Enjolras, seemed to tell a different story.

Courfeyrac’s quiet, brushing the dirt silently off Potato’s haunches, and Grantaire feels such a sudden stab of pity that his hand raises on its own accord, uselessly hovering behind Courfeyrac’s shoulder, ready but unknowing how to comfort, and, after a moment, he drops it back to his side, and waits.   

“It’s mutual. We both know.” Courfeyrac confesses quietly, steadily staring at the mare’s neck as he brushes.

Grantaire suspected as much, but it doesn’t exactly clear anything up. “So why aren’t you together? Is it because you’re both men?”

Courfeyrac looks over, this time with a small smile. “It was, to an extent. Less so now, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to Enjolras,” Grantaire corrects. “I’ve done nothing.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “You could have said no. I know Enjolras, and I know he would have given you the option. You could have said no, and gone back home, and not had a place in history as the first royal male couple. But you didn’t. Ergo, you’ve had a part in this.”

Grantaire wills himself not to blush, and finds himself kicking the dirt, unable to raise his voice above a mutter. “The idea was Enjolras’. I’m not the important part of this.”

“You may not see it that way. Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, leaning his head down to try to catch Grantaire’s eyes. He evades him, staring resolutely at his feet. “Listen to me, you may not see it that way because you’re too close to the situation. But to the hundreds or thousands of others out there like me, like us, you’re an important figurehead. What you’ve done, or, what you’ve been a part of, has meant the world to a lot of people. Like it or not, you’re a symbol of hope to thousands.”

There has to be handbook somewhere in the great hall library on how to respond to compliments, and Grantaire vows in that moment to find it, copy it, and memorize it.

He picks up the brush from where Courfeyrac dropped it, and begins to curry Potato’s flank. Courfeyrac’s looking at him, but it’s too soft a glance to be judgmental.

“If it’s not the men thing,” Grantaire says, picking up the original thread of conversation. “Then what is it?”

Courfeyrac moves so he’s standing in front of the horse. He pets her nose softly, thoughtfully, before turning to give Grantaire a startling sad smile. “Marriage for love is a privilege of the lower classes.”

Grantaire’s hands stop. He looks over.

“Combeferre is a high ranking official now. He has been pledged to someone since Enjolras took him on staff to train to be a diplomat; some princess in a far off land that I refused to learn the name of, just so I couldn’t curse it.

“I could marry for love, of course,” Courfeyrac says, placing his head on the horse’s forelock. “That is my luxury for being born a peasant. No one cares who I am with or why I am with them. Combeferre once told me that he was given a lecture about how love marriages were inherently selfish, and how they were a statement of a lower pedigree and lower status. Marrying for status, or money, or political power – that was a show that you were getting the right lot in life. Because you were marrying to help yourself or your country – not to be with someone, because that, of course, isn’t as noble as trying to be someone.”

Grantaire crosses the two feet separating them, and pulls Courfeyrac into his arms. He comes willingly, putting his head in the crook of Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Fucking sucks,” Grantaire mutters. He can feel Courfeyrac nod in agreement. “But I bet Enjolras will make a law saying officials can marry whoever they please. And hell, if he doesn’t, I will.”

“Kind of you,” Courfeyrac says into his shirt. “And Enjolras said he would. But it doesn’t matter – Combeferre is pledged to someone else. Above all else, he’s loyal. He won’t break off the engagement when it will have negative effects on the country’s political sphere.”

“You truly believe he’s more loyal to the country than you?” Grantaire asks.

Courfeyrac nods against his shoulder.  

“Are you sure?”

“Do you really think we never had that conversation?”

Grantaire closes his eyes.

For all his shortcomings, Grantaire can say that one thing he’s never struggled with is empathy. And as he pulls Courfeyrac closer to his chest, he can feel the dagger that that conversation must have been in his own stomach.

* * *

Grantaire’s making his way back to his chamber for a bath when he intercepts Enjolras who is obviously just back from his own.

His hair is shades darker when wet, and looks slightly like a mop head.

“Grantaire, I’m glad I ran into you. I was wondering if I could get you to do something for me.”

“Sure,” Grantaire answers immediately, stupidly, given there is a fantastic possibility he’ll have neither the abilities nor knowledge to do Enjolras a favor.

“I’m trying to distribute a new draft of a bill before the small council meeting so it can be officially recognized on the floor so it can go to a vote before the harvest. I really need to make sure it gets to everyone, and I’m not sure about time.”

“Who do you want me to do?” Grantaire asks. He’s only 50% sure he knows where the Hand of the King’s room is, and 100% sure he doesn’t know where anyone else’s is.

“The Western region crew. They should be in their studies, all in the West Wing. A maid will be able to show you the way.”

“I consent to try,” Grantaire says.

“Good enough for me.” Enjolras hands him a large, several inch thick stack of parchment. Grantaire hopes the dirt from the stables is no longer on his hands.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says with his trademark earnestness.

“No problem,” Grantaire says, though it’s most likely going to be a huge fucking problem.

* * *

“Oh, Prince Grantaire!” Before Grantaire can correct her that Prince isn’t technically his title, the maid is bowing low. “May I help you with anything?”

“I’m looking for the studies of the council members.” His stomach growls, and with it, he’s forcibly reminded that he’s a drunk who hasn’t had a drop of alcohol in a day and a half. “And also some food and drink, if we can?”

“The kitchen is closer than their chambers, sire,” she says.

He shrugs. What can it hurt?

* * *

He’s on his fifth game of dominoes with the kitchen staff when the door to the kitchen bursts open, hitting the wall behind it. With a sinking stomach and slinking down in his seat, Grantaire watches as Enjolras storms in, stopping not a foot from where Grantaire is sitting.

All of the staff have stood, heads bowed.

The silence is suffocating, and, at the very same moment, both their gazes fall to the stack of papers that Grantaire had left on the table. Grantaire’s eyes slide to the window, where it is indeed, pitch black.

Enjolras breathes in, once.

“The council meetings are not optional.” His voice is controlled, clipped.

Grantaire nods - he knows, he knows. He doubts saying that he legitimately forgot will do him any good at all.

“You don’t have to have anything to do with me personally if you don’t want. But when I ask you to do something that has to do with actually _legislation_ \- that is _not optional,_ Grantaire.” His look is cold and dry, marble.

Grantaire nods.

Enjolras’s hard stare is crucifying, as effective as a whip and hammer. He looks up, and the staff continues to stare at the ground.

“What exactly were you doing in here?”

“I asked Sir Grantaire to sit and play a game with us.” The girl who had led him in here pipes up. Grantaire feels such a rush of gratitude at not being forced to speak.

“You asked him to play with you?”

His tone suggests something is off about that, and the girl quickly corrects herself, “we were playing and he asked to join. We said okay.”

Enjolras blinks, once, still so cold. He turns to Grantaire. “I don’t care if you make friends with the staff. Don’t do it on my time.”

With that, he’s gone.

A mouse lingers in the corner.

“Well,” Grantaire says, breaking the deafening silence. “Got anymore wine?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Good morning! Rise and shine.”

Grantaire groans.

“Or rise and sulk.”

Grantaire takes his pillow and holds it over his head

“Or rise and complain.”

He burrows deeper into the blankets.

“Okay, well, you don’t have to do anything else, but rising is mandatory.”

“Feuilly.” Grantaire’s voice is muffled from the pillow. “Please go away.”

“No,” he says cheerfully, and Grantaire blankly wonders if this is his fault, if he groomed Feuilly into this kind of insubordination.

With a loud sigh, he sits up - or tries, but a wave a nausea sends him back to his pillow with a loud groan.

“I should not have gotten that fucking drunk.”

“Most likely, sire,” Feuilly says.

Fuck you, Grantaire doesn’t say, just thinks it really loudly in his general direction.

He sits up with a sigh, the sour taste of last night’s wine stuck in his mouth and his left arm mostly numb from where he fell asleep unknowingly on a book.

He holds his head in his hands and listens to the small human sounds of Feuilly preparing breakfast.

“When am I going to be forced to go to breakfast with the whole royal crew again?”

“As soon as possible, I suppose.” He can hear a liquid being poured. “But lunch and dinner are the only requirements until marriage.”

Grantaire nods, only looking up when a goblet is pushed under his nose.

“Ugh.” He turns his head away from it. “Do you have any wine?”

“In the morning, sire?”

“Yes, Feuilly, in the morning.”

“Wine doesn’t solve any problems.”

“Yes, well, neither does orange juice.”

He risks looking at Feuilly, who is standing at the end of the bed, holding the goblet and, randomly, an apricot, and looking thoroughly disapproving.

“Don’t worry, Feuilly,” Grantaire says, finally standing. He raises his hands above his head, and his spine cracks, like he’s fifty years his senior. “Wine and I are good friends.”

“Sir,” Feuilly says. “Maybe that’s why I am worried.” He seems to realize in a moment what he’s said, and quickly backtracks. “I meant no disrespect. You have every right to drink whatever—”

“Oh shut up,” Grantaire says, flapping a hand in his direction. “I can’t be assed to turn you in for impudence or insubordination or whatever it is you’re worried about.”

The words seem to give Feuilly pause, but, after a moment, he nods.

“Apricot?”

* * *

The wine can’t mask the anxiety and self-loathing tangled together in his heart from the previous night.

As he’s ambling down the corridor, he’s coming to realize that Enjolras’s disappointment in him is a physical ache. He grinds his hands against his eyes as he walks the stone hallways. It’s not too late, he supposes, to become a recluse sheep breeder in the middle of a forgotten village somewhere in the forest. He could always grow a beard, cut down his own trees, make his own clothing from his sheep, each named after a King of Florin that he apparently will never forget.

He’s aflutter with nerves left over from the night before. To this point, he thought he’d become immune to the pain of being a disappointment, but no – apparently Enjolras brings back all that he had shoved down back when he was ten and flogged by his teacher for not understanding fractions, the insecurity of knowing there was a right choice and yet it feels hidden behind a curtain, known to exist but inaccessible without a movement Grantaire can’t seem to get his feet to do no matter how much he urges them.

He needs to stop making life harder on himself. A place to start would to be making an active effort to stop pissing Enjolras off.

He stops by a window to look outside – the countryside the kingdom is placed on is, admittedly, objectively beautiful – it’s set on a rolling green hill, splashes of colors on the mountainside given the extensive gardening, with lovely small servants homes and the like peppering the landscape.

His fingers curl against the stone, he shifts his weight to his other foot, his foot begins to tap – nothing alleviates the restless energy telling him to run boy, run. There’s nowhere to go - he brings himself with him wherever he goes, and all he truly wants is to not be in his body, not being in a life that has him constantly in a situation where he hates himself, where he knows he’ll never be what he should.

They always make him flinch.

Courfeyrac is outside, leading a tall, brown horse across the paddock.

With a heavy sigh, he turns, and catches sight of the door across from him, slightly propped upon. Combeferre seems to be running some sort of a meeting.

And with a forced no-forethought, he makes a choice.

He pushes open the doors to the chamber, declaring, “Everyone – out.”

There’s only a half dozen or so people, all of whom look up from their books, not moving an inch. Grantaire stares solidly at Combeferre, who raises an eyebrow in response.

After several tense moments of non-movement, Grantaire barks, “Everyone – out.”

“Grantaire—” Combeferre starts, but Grantaire puts up a hand, silencing him.

“I have the most political authority in this room, need I remind you. I need to talk to Combeferre alone.”

“We could leave,” Combeferre points out.

Grantaire grins, sharp and unwielding. “But then I wouldn’t get to be dramatic.”

They all grumble like they’re still teenagers. Grantaire wonders if it’s less an age thing and more a matter of people pulling rank that makes people get petulant.

It only takes a few moments, and the door is slamming shut, echoing in the chamber.

“I take it you have important matters to discuss.” Combeferre hasn’t moved since Grantaire’s declaration, one hand on his book, one hand on the table. Grantaire grits his teeth, moving forward, and putting his hands on the table.

“I had an interesting day yesterday.”

“So I’ve been told,” Combeferre replies mildly.

“I had a conversation with Courfeyrac,” and that, that gets a twinge. “And I’d rather like to know your perspective on the matter.”

“On what matter?” Combeferre asks, and Grantaire can feel the temperature in the room drop several degrees by his tone alone.

“Your engagement.” No response. “You are engaged?”

Combeferre doesn’t look away. “So I am. To Lady Anastasia of Pence.”

Grantaire makes a mental note not to tell Courfeyrac her name. “He claims that you hold her in higher esteem than him.”

“Does he?” Combeferre asks, eyes narrowing. He still hasn’t moved an inch, one hand on his book, palm maybe an inch from the edge, one hand on the table. His fingers are starting to curl.

“He does. I told him, of course, that he was most definitely mistaken. If you were lucky enough to find love in someone as wonderful and kind as Courfeyrac, you wouldn’t trade it away for a political investment. That would not only be cowardly, but it would be cruel, neither of which you are.”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says. His eyes are sealed onto Grantaire’s, but he still hasn’t moved – though his tone has moved to warning. “This isn’t your business.”

“Ah,” Grantaire says, standing up, straightening his backbone. “My husband’s chief advisor’s marital affairs and one of my closest friend here’s love life does seem to fall under ‘my business,’ I would think. What exactly, pray tell, are the boundaries on my business? Is you breaking my friend’s heart for a tenuous political tie at best really not in the grounds of my business?”

Combeferre twitches. Grantaire’s palms are sweaty, heart beating, but he refuses to move his feet.

“It is not a tenuous political tie—”

“Pence doesn’t need political strengthening,” Grantaire snaps. He’s been going to political meetings and in political education sessions for more than half his life, and people still assume he knows nothing. In the back of his mind, he wonders what this has to say about him. “Our relations with them have been good since we gave them crops to sustain them in the 12 years war under the last King’s reign. I assume that’s what your marriage alliance came from – just tightening an already existing alliance. Severing your marriage tie would barely have any political consequences at all, especially considering Pence’s ever strengthening alliance with Shilling. If you were to break it off, they’d marry her off to someone over there. Not to mention that you aren’t born into this class. There probably was a a bit of a stir they gave you such an alliance in the first place.”

By his face, Grantaire knows he’s right.

“I know the conventions Combeferre. The royal advisors are supposed to marry high, it’s seen as a status symbol. So, you bowing to it shows that you can a lot more about your place in court than I think Enjolras would be comfortable with. Enjolras talks about change, and yet here you are, with the easiest change that could be made - shoving arranged marriage in the face of the advisors since you are not _forced_ to abide by it - and yet you bow.”

“I made a pledge, Grantaire,” he says, tone still mild. His hand is in a fist now. “An oath, a vow. I am loyal to whom I am pledged.”

“And what about what you’ve pledged to Courfeyrac?”

“I’ve promised him nothing but my heart, which he will always have. Beyond that – I can’t give him anything.”

He’s too resigned – too perfectly calm in that chair.

“You could give him anything. You’re just too much of a coward to take what you want.”

“You’re trying to get me angry. It won’t work.”

“I want to get you worked up!” Grantaire shouts. He takes a candle out from the holder, throwing it at Combeferre, who dodges it cleanly. It’s like pushing against a tide; useless and disappointing. “I want you to think about him for ten goddamn seconds.”

“I would do nothing but think of him,” Combeferre says, tone sharpening. “But he’s not all I can think about. My life doesn’t give me that privilege, not anymore.”

Grantaire’s nerves from this morning are dissolving into something resembling complete fear. But, in for a penny. “You are not born into royalty; you have no birthright,” he repeats. “I would bet all my savings from Guilder that the Hand and the King would be relieved the don’t have to marry off an eligible young woman to someone who was born as nothing. You’d have nothing but support from Enjolras. So why don’t you? You just don’t want to.”

Combeferre twitches, jaw clenching. “You do not get a say in my feelings, Grantaire.”

“It’s plain to see that he cares more for you than you do for him.” Grantaire prods. “You’re treating his heart like it’s a plaything; fun for you now, but fine to throw away when you get something better.”

And it’s unfair, he knows it is, but it makes Combeferre stand, pushing his chair out with a scrape, and Grantaire cowers.

“I’m not trying to trivialize heartbreak, Grantaire,” Combeferre snaps, like a pile of kindling that finally took to the flame. “For me, it’s a kind of death that I’m forced to live through. Every day, I have to live with the fact that one day someone else will be by my side, while he’s not a mile away, and I can’t cross that distance.”

Combeferre crosses the distance between them in two short strides. “Do you think it is something that I treat lightly? The breaking of my own heart?”

“I’m saying,” Grantaire starts, his voice scared even to his own ears. “That so far, you’ve only mentioned your own heart. It’s not the only one breaking in this situation.”

Combeferre blinks, before taking a long step back. Grantaire tentatively takes a step forwards, arms out, placating.

“I understand that you can live with breaking your own heart; I’m asking, how can you live with breaking his?”

Combeferre stares, before opening his mouth. He closes it, and then opens it again.

After a moment, he finally stutters out, “He can marry for love,” which is underwhelming to say the least.

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees, rolling his eyes, heart still pounding in his ears. “But how is he going to do that without you?”

* * *

“Idiot, idiot, I am an idiot, idiot, idiot, I am an idiot.”

A maid with a soapy bucket looks up at him strangely, but he can’t stop the mantra from spilling out of his stupid, stupid, big mouth.

“Idiot, idiot, I am such a fucking idiot.”

He’s circled the castle twice now, and it’s almost time to meet with Jehan for the week.

He hates himself, truly. He’s a selfish prick with a mercurial mind, and he’s taking his own breath away with the idiocy of burning one of the only bridges he has here, let alone a bridge that leads right into the heart of his future husband.

“Fucking idiot,” he repeats, one last time, before opening up the door to the study.

“Grantaire!” Jehan greets with a smile. “I have some books on Florin’s agricultural system - interested in arguing about sustainable crops?”

He swallows it down.

“Jehan,” Grantaire grins. “There’s nothing I’d like more.”

* * *

Jehan is fiercely intellectual with just enough dose of helpful that Grantaire feels that the argument is less parrying and more a collaborative strain of ideas, coalescing into a strangely informative mound of information and opinions that Grantaire feels he may be able to hold his own in a conversation without feeling like he’s truly losing.

He’s feeling almost entirely calm by the time he pushes open the door to go to lunch, but his fears fall back into place the moment he sees his open seat in between Enjolras and Combeferre, both who are already seated. They haven’t noticed him yet, and he’s filled with a cowardly inclination to simply turn around, call a chef, and eat in his room in solitude.

But he can’t balance on a knife’s point.

If Combeferre or Enjolras is going to shank him for his behavior the past two days, he might as well get it over with.

He’s silent as he takes his seat, and, to his surprise, Combeferre gives him a short nod.

The quiet between them all is pointed - Enjolras simply buttering his muffin with a cold focus that means he’s most definitely avoiding something, and Combeferre is staring at the south wall, his eyes unfocused.

It is, Grantaire decides, decidedly better than being stabbed, which he had half expected.

Or a quarter.

At least an eighth.

The first course is potato soup, because it always seems to be soup. After Combeferre’s is placed before him, he puts his napkin on the table, nods their way, says a polite “If you’ll excuse me,” and leaves. Grantaire watches as he gets up and approaches a server.

“He doesn’t know how to say thank you,” Enjolras says suddenly. Grantaire startles, turning towards him. “He’s the reason for the potato soup, and he’s most likely making sure the kitchen made the apricot dessert, since, other than potato soup, it’s the only thing he knows for sure you like.”

Grantaire isn’t sure how Combeferre knows he especially likes apricots, let alone potato soup, but he really doesn’t understand what Combeferre could possibly be thanking him for, and, of the two, the latter seems far more mystifying.

“And what is it exactly that I did worth thanking?”

Enjolras doesn’t seem amused by that, staring for a moment before rolling his eyes.

Grantaire scratches his ear before giving up - there’s no way he’s going to press information out of a corked Enjolras - he’ll just have to wait, and possibly have someone test his dessert to make sure it’s not poisoned.

He makes three more spoonfuls of soup before the silence is broken again.

“How did you get Combeferre to change his mind?” Enjolras asks suddenly. He runs a hand through his hair, like he didn’t mean to say it. “I’ve been trying to get him to rethink his stance on Courfeyrac for years. And one conversation with you, and suddenly we’re writing our apologies to the King of Pence?”

Grantaire drops his spoon into his soup. It splatters. “Wait, what?”

Enjolras brushes off some of the soup that had sprayed on his shirt. “All he said was that he had a conversation with you and it made him rethink. What did you say?”

“He actually changed his mind?”

“Yeah. Whatever you did was effective.”

“God, I thought he was going to murder me, not listen to me.”

“Murder?” Enjolras looks properly scandalized, and, despite himself, Grantaire hides a grin. “Combeferre would never murder. He won’t even go fishing with me because he won’t kill a fish.”

“Well, I don’t know Combeferre well, but I do know that getting in the face of a chief advisor and yelling isn’t usually standard protocol to gain respect.”

“Well,” Enjolras says, eyes wide. “That is an approach I didn’t think to take.”

He sounds genuinely interested, and Combeferre is his closest friend, so Grantaire figures he probably owes him an honest answer.

“I assume all of your arguments were about Combeferre deserving happiness and whatnot?”

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire shrugs. “It was simple. I made it about Courfeyrac deserving happiness, not about him.”

Enjolras squints.

“Look,” Grantaire sighs. He sets his napkin on his lap. “It’s easy to deny yourself something you want, especially when you’re as good a man as Combeferre is. It’s much more difficult to deny someone you love something.”

“Huh.”

“Well, it seemed to work on Combeferre.”

“No,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. “No, I get it. It makes sense.”

“Remind me to extend him my thanks for not having me excommunicated,” Grantaire mutters, picking up his spoon again.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Enjolras dismisses. “He doesn’t purposefully make me mad.”

Grantaire pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth, but decides he doesn’t know the right question to ask, and just sips his soup.

“You actually got in his face and yelled.” Enjolras shakes his head. “You’re very brave.”

“I am not,” Grantaire disagrees, heart pounding stupidly loud in his ears, and if that isn’t the irony for the ages. “I was terrified the entire time. I didn’t even do it for some noble reason - I don’t even know why I did it.”

“Bravery is just a choice. And it’s one you made.”

They seem to be steadily ignoring the night before, or Enjolras has decided Combeferre changing his mind is an adequate way to make up for his failings. Either way, Grantaire finds himself puzzled but grateful.

Combeferre returns, as does the silence.

He does get that apricot dessert, though.

* * *

“You need to get up, immediately.”

“Wha-?” Grantaire says blearily. He’s only awake enough to be aware that his bladder is full and his stomach is empty.

He is most certainly not awake enough to put together why on Earth Enjolras is currently pacing his room, looking more frazzled than Grantaire has yet seen him.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “Why are you waking me up—” he leans to the side, looking out the window, “at dawn?”

“Small council meeting.”

“Again?”

“Our idiotic small council decided that what with my cousin’s visit that he would be too ‘diplomatically busy’ to run the small council meeting at a normal time and instead it must be held directly before breakfast.”

“Ah,” Grantaire says, his brain switching gears in a moment to ‘on’, like he’d just taken a shot of some particularly strong liquor. “And the real reason for the switch?”

“He wants to pass legislation that will make it unlawful for men to marry each other and claim it’s been law before you were here. That way it won’t alienate Guilder, as we legally have to reject you, and I will be forced to pick a wife, since there _technically_ is still enough time, if they are already in talks with someone, which I bet they are. If I’m not there, there’s not the necessary dissenting vote that can table the bill until I’m King and it becomes the legal precedent.”

“And you’re waking me up, because?”

That earns him a shirt to the face, which is most likely a fair response.

“Get dressed!” Enjolras barks.

 

“You need a unanimous vote for legislation to pass here, but all members don’t need to be present. That explains him and you – but why do I have to be there?” Grantaire asks as they make their way to the small council chamber. Enjolras’s legs are short, but he must have some super energy store of justice charging his muscles, because Grantaire knows he’ll be sore for days at the pace they are making.

“This legislation affects you and your future. You have the right to vote on it as you wish.”

With a blink, Grantaire realizes what this is about – Enjolras is giving him the option, here, to make his dissent known. If he’s truly, truly unhappy, this is an out, an easy way to show his displeasure without the awkward conversation, an indication to Enjolras that all is not alright, and his words are wind, and that a different solution can be made, despite the fact of how badly Enjolras obviously wants this – not only for social reform, but also to make a statement to the council that he has power beyond being sand in the gears.

As they enter the chamber, Enjolras’s face set and determined, Grantaire wonders how, after meeting Enjolras, anyone could ever look at somebody else.

“Ah,” the Hand of the King says, tone not quite hitting hostile, but maybe a second cousin to it. “I’m glad to see you’ve both heard about the time change.”

“Thank you so much for the notice,” Enjolras bites, and Grantaire stifles a grin behind his hand.

“Take a seat,” they’re told.

 

Grantaire is starting to wonder if Enjolras had bad intel, because, an hour and a half later, and they haven’t even approached the topic.

They did approve of the switch of diplomatic activities from Grantaire to a old, short, round man that sits three seats down from Enjolras normally. Grantaire doesn’t know his name, but apparently he is considered the unofficial ambassador. The Hand looks particularly sour when announcing the switch over, but he didn’t seem any more pleased when announcing it’d be Grantaire’s duty, so Grantaire chalks it to his unpleasant countenance and lets his mind tune out.

He’s halfway through the bricks on the South wall when the table shakes, and Grantaire startles back to attention. He looks over to Enjolras, who’s stare and fist on the table is telling him he definitely missed something.

“I didn’t do anything,” he blurts.

“Exactly,” Enjolras hisses back.

Grantaire says, as dignified as he can be under the circumstances, which is not very, “I’m sorry, what did I miss?”

“The Hand gave you a proposition.”

Grantaire lets his gaze slide over, where the Hand of the King is indeed sitting with his hands interlaced.

“Maybe let’s assume I was momentarily deaf,” Grantaire suggests.

The side of Enjolras’s mouth curls into a small smile, but it’s gone before Grantaire can confirm it was there.

“Enjolras remained a dissenting vote for our legislation a moment ago, so we do not need your vote.” Grantaire gives him a sarcastic thumbs up. “Because of that, I had an alternate proposal.”

Well, that’s probably shit.

“I had proposed,” the Hand said, his tone carefully bright. “That given Combeferre’s backing out of the deal, that _you_ marry Ms Anastasia of Pence. She’s a beautiful young girl. She is also not in line for the crown, so you wouldn’t need to worry about any political duties you’d need to do in this role. It also would not need to be as quick, so you’d have more time to get to know your bride before the wedding, as there isn’t a date she needs to take the crown. I doubt we’d find opposition from Guilder, as this would not be harming you - it’s helping you, and their letter specified that the _government_ could not dissent; if you went by choice, it wouldn’t cause diplomatic problems. As compensation for the loss of position, we’d be willing to pay you a stipend yearly of 1000 Florinians a year.”

“Florinians?” Grantaire questions. “What use would they be in Pence?”

Enjolras stills next to him with the question. It takes him a moment longer than it should, but he realizes the question could easily be construed to mean he’s considering the offer.

Which, if he was being perfectly honest with himself, which he wasn’t, he probably should consider. On paper, it was a much better deal than his current one.

The hand seems to realize this as well. “Then we’d convert to Pence’s currency.”

“Mmm,” Grantaire murmurs. Underneath the table, the moves his leg, pressing it against Enjolras, who is completely stiff.

Enjolras has no reaction beyond a small flicker of the eyes, but Grantaire hopes he gets the message.

“And Enjolras?” Grantaire asks the Hand. He pours a glass of wine, and loudly slurps it down. The Hand is clearly trying his best to keep the disgust from his face, like he hasn’t already downed half a bottle. “What would happen to him?”

“I have been in contact with the government of Yen since the night of the choosing ceremony - they have agreed that their monarchy’s youngest daughter would be an appropriate bride. Unconventional, of course, to have a wife without a choosing ceremony - but not completely unheard of.”

“Enjolras?” Grantaire turns. “Your opinion on the matter?”

“I’ve stated my position quite clearly a moment ago. I’d rather things remain as is.” Not a ringing endorsement, but clear, nonetheless. “But it is your decision to make.”

He makes the council wait through another glass of wine, but Enjolras is starting to shake his leg, and he’s the last person Grantaire wants to alienate further, so he takes a final sip, slams the glass on the table, nods, thinking, then announces, “I’ll pass, gentlemen.”

The Hand twitches and his smile falls. “Oh,” Grantaire says, “Look, you look sad now. Was that my fault? My apologies.”

“What can we do to make you accept the offer? The Queen of Yen wants a response from us sent by the end of next week or she rescinds the offer.”

“I wouldn’t mind a flying horse.”

“Be serious,” the Hand grits out.

“Pegasus,” Grantaire says thoughtfully. “What a delightful concept. Did you know the first writing of a Pegasus came from—”

“On topic, Grantaire,” the Hand says, still with a crushed veneer of patience.  

Enjolras is silent next to him.

“If this is the last piece on the agenda, I wouldn’t mind getting back to my room. So many shirts to reorganize, you know.”

“Grantaire. This is obviously the better choice - what on Earth would make you stay?”

Grantaire’s eyes flit to Enjolras, who is still staring down at his hands, interlaced and lying on his lap.

Grantaire clears his throat. “Well, if you insist on the truth,” a breath from Enjolras next to him, “your beds really are most comfortable.”

A collective breath is let out.

Enjolras’s hands twist in his lap.

“You,” the Hand says, stare piercing, tone conversational. “Are a waste of time.”

Grantaire tips his glass in acknowledgement. “Glad we’re all in agreement.”  

* * *

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asks tentatively. Their footsteps are loud, echoing against the stone walls and up to the ceilings, but he can still hear Enjolras’ long, angry breath.

“Fine,” he says, and with how much he grinds his teeth, Grantaire’s amazed that he’s never once mentioned a dentist. “It’s just frustrating.”

“You get less frustrated if you just drink through it.”

“Maybe the small council meetings would run smoother if members didn’t insist on having two bottles of wine on the table.” Enjolras rubs his temples. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“Look,” Grantaire says, and grabs his arm, turning him back. Enjolras looks down, staring at where he’s being held, and Grantaire pulls his arm back suddenly, as if scalded by fire. “Sorry,” he says, which at least makes Enjolras look him in the eye again. “But you just seem really tense.”

“I have reason.”

“I know,” Grantaire replies, because he does. He can only imagine the frustration - trying so hard to make decent change, and having it all rest on the balance of Grantaire making the right choices and the council being unclever enough to not think of a way out fast enough.

Enjolras is seemingly waiting for something further, probably given that Grantaire is still looking down at him. With a breath, Grantaire builds up his courage - if there’s any time to try to make up for his mistakes.

Put a foot forward towards bridging their gap. If it gets stepped on, then, hey, it was one foot. He can hobble.

“Look, after everything in Guilder, I had a lot of ways to deal with frustration. I was thinking maybe you could use some help in relaxing. Just for an evening.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, but is regarding him with significantly less annoyance, which Grantaire decides to take as encouragement. “Just come with me. Please? Just try it out.”

 

Enjolras balks the second they are atop the hill and he can see the training ground.

“I’m not a trained swordsman.”

Grantaire blinks. “Really? But you’re a highborn. Isn’t it sort of...required?”

“When I was younger, yes, but when I clearly showed no aptitude for it, my parents let me give it up. I haven’t trained in a decade.”

“That was nice of your parents. I was forced to continue for years and years and join the King’s guard, despite the fact that I’ve never really been any good.”

“Really?” Enjolras gives him a once over. “You like lithe enough.”

Grantaire’s face colors, but Enjolras seems to hold steady, so he probably didn’t mean it beyond a general comment. “I’m fine, I suppose.”

“But why weren’t you good at it?” Enjolras presses.

“Because of,” a complete inability to focus, a distaste for authority, lack of practice, of hating to hurt anything, of laziness, of a dove nature, “reasons.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrow, and Grantaire pushes through for the sake of trying to mend them, resolve weakening. “Look, hitting things with a giant sword is stress relieving. You don’t have to be good at it for it to feel good.”

Enjolras looks completely ready to resist, but a moment after opening his mouth, he closes it again. His gaze is too long, too hard; it feels like he’s channeling a basilisk from the olden stories. After a second, he shakes his head, and lets his arms fall to his sides. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Bahorel greets them, smile stretching wide, eyes like slits. “Grantaire! I heard from the men that you come down and socialize a lot! It’s good to see you, man, it’s been weeks.”

“Benefits of not being in this King’s army,” Grantaire jokes, and kicks him in the shin just he knows it was a joke.

Enjolras raises his eyebrow, as he’s wont to do when Grantaire’s doing something rather incomprehensible to him. Bahorel turns to face him, and bows low.

“Enjolras.”

And that’s weird - Bahorel doesn’t seem to be one to randomly drop titles. Enjolras, being Enjolras, doesn’t seem to mind, and just nods.

“Good to see you. What’s this about you not guarding Grantaire at all times?”

“At my request,” Grantaire inputs. Bahorel’s gone a deep red.

Enjolras just shakes his head slightly, which could mean anything, so Grantaire stampedes forward.

“Anyway, how is it down here?”

“Fine, fine. But what are you doing here? It’s training time.”

“I’m well aware,” Grantaire says, because fifteen years in the King’s guard does give you that knowledge. “Think you guys can spare two swords for the King and his ribald consort?”

“Of course, sire.” Bahorel bows low again, hand touching the ground, but he manages to turn and leave right before Grantaire can level another kick, slightly higher this time. He hates bowing, and Enjolras doesn’t seem like he’d be a bigger fan.

A minute passes, and Bahorel returns, a small baselard for Enjolras, and a much larger, heavier arming sword for Grantaire.

“Fantastic,” Grantaire says, slapping Bahorel on the back. He’s in his armor, so it clangs and probably hurts them both, but the gesture is communicated the same. “Have any targets?”

“For the crown prince and his fiancee, any you’d like.”

“Bale of hay and a dummy?”

“As you wish.”

 

“No aptitude, huh?”

Enjolras is objectively bad at hitting a still bale of hay with a sword, which isn’t something Grantaire was aware anyone could be objectively bad at.

His stance is all wrong, and he’s too close to the bale; every time he hits it, hay flies up into his eyes and hair.

“Be quiet.”

It’s said with more venom than Grantaire was expecting, and his smile dips slightly.

“Look, this is supposed to be stress relieving.”

“How is it relieving to _fail_ at something basic?” Enjolras says, and his eyes are bright and angry. Grantaire falters.

“Try...just, look, step back a foot.”

Enjolras stares at him, eyes narrowed and arms crossed, but he takes a step back. He somehow makes a step look skeptical.

“Look, I know the sword is short - really more like a dagger, but you don’t need to be the length of the sword away from the bale. Half the attack is in the launch - in the moving forward. Now your feet—” Grantaire moves his feet into position. “Copy this.”

To his slight amazement, Enjolras does, without question.

“Turn so your shoulder is facing the bale.”

Enjolras does.

“Bend your knees slightly.”

Enjolras does.

“Have your sword in front of you, like this,” Grantaire raises his own, “While your other arm is up like this,” Grantaire moves his free arm by his side, “Like you’re holding a shield.”

Enjolras does.

“Bounce on the balls of your feet slightly, and then launch forward with your front foot, and _stab._ ”

Enjolras does.

And then blinks.

He turns to Grantaire. “There may be value in this after all.”

“Glad to assist.” Grantaire’s laugh is too high. “Just imagine it as the Hand of the King - and bam, stress gone.”

Enjolras brows furrow. “Why? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Then imagine it as poverty made into a tangible object by a fairy.”

It was a joke, but Enjolras nods once, turns back, and stabs the haybale.

He’s still terrible, but unquestionably less so. Not that it really matters - gods willing, Enjolras will never see any actual battle.

 

“You’re good at this.”

Grantaire startles. Enjolras is leaning up against his haybale, chest still heaving, but his eyes are unwavering from where he’s been taking Grantaire in in silence.

“Oh. Thanks?”

“Your footwork,” Enjolras clarifies, and Grantaire suddenly worries that him explaining the compliment will also take away the actual compliment of it. “How are you so quick?”

“Dance lessons. I liked that far better. Less stabbing people in the flesh and more just,” Grantaire shrugs. “I don’t know, exerting energy. Practiced a lot.”

He raises his sword to swing again, but Enjolras voice stops him, and he lowers it back down.

“You actually like dancing?”

“Yep,” Grantaire nods, and raises his sword once more. This time, it only gets above his belt buckle before Enjolras is speaking.

“Well then, why didn’t you continue with that? Why be a knight?”

It’s a stupid question, and he can’t help but feel his face probably betrayed that immediately. He quells his reaction, and just raises an eyebrow.

“You ask that like I had any say in the matter.”

Grantaire raises his sword again, and this time he’s able to cut the head clean off the dummy in a powerful stroke.

Enjolras has turned back to his hay bale, but he’s staring at it instead of hitting it.

Grantaire turns back.

Maybe Enjolras’s form of stress relief is staring.

It’s not like he’d know.

 

“Sire,” a woman servant of the guard says, curtsying low. Her hair stands about a foot tall, and Grantaire idly wonders how, or if, it could fit under a helmet. “Your cousin is set to arrive in just under an hour.”

“Oh right, I forgot.” Enjolras wipes his brow. The sweat has darkened the edge of his shirt collar. “I should probably make myself presentable.”

He hands the sword off to a squire with minimal fuss, and turns to follow the woman back to the castle.

Grantaire watches him take several steps, then abruptly realizes he doesn’t want to be caught watching him leave, and turns back towards his own dummy. He’s only two hits in when Enjolras’s voice comes from behind.

“Coming, Grantaire?”

He’s clearly exasperated, but his eyes are soft.

Grantaire, for one, wasn’t actually planning on coming, but mostly due to the fact that he thought he was unequivocally uninvited from any family events.

“I—, yeah, okay,” says Grantaire, stabbing his sword into the ground uncomfortably close to his foot.

Enjolras starts back, walking into the setting sun, while Grantaire trots behind.

* * *

“Sire, His and Her Royal Highnesses Duke and Duchess Pontmercy are here to see you.”

“Finally,” Enjolras says, standing. “Please, send them in.”

“Who are they again?” Grantaire asks, leaning over.

Enjolras leans in, speaking into Grantaire’s ear. “My cousin and his wife.”

“Ah,” Grantaire says, and purposefully leans the other way. There’s still goosebumps on his neck.

The grand door opens, and in walks a lovely lady, brown hair piled high and silver dress fluttering out a good four feet from her waist.

“Cosette,” Enjolras greets. “And...was Marius with you?”

Cosette stops, brow furrowing, and looking to her side, apparently unaware she lost her husband. After a moment, she rolls her eyes.

“Excuse me,” she says pleasantly, before backtracking out the door. Just the tail end of her dress is visible when she shouts “MARIUS” loud enough for Grantaire to startle, hitting his elbow on the table. Next to him, Enjolras snorts.

She walks back into the room with far more gallantry than Grantaire would have managed after that, and after a moment, a young man, Enjolras’ age, stumbles into the room. His coat is just slightly the wrong color for a man of his rank, and Grantaire’s fairly sure there’s a stain on his left knee.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes. “But the tapestry on the left wall! It’s beautiful! Did you see the poem sewed onto the edges?”

“It’s in ancient yen, Marius,” Enjolras says, disbelieving.

“It’s about a lady who _died_ because she looked out a window instead of focusing on her weaving!”

“Oh what a handsome man with flowing hair and bright eyes will do to us,” Grantaire inputs conversationally. Enjolras’s head snap in his direction while Marius bounces in place.

“You’ve read it?!” he cries. “Isn’t it lovely?”

“In a rather disturbing way, yes.”

“Oh,” Marius says, eyes widening. “Of course I didn’t mean that I liked what had happened to her! I just meant that art of weaving with the story—”

“Hello, Marius,” Enjolras says loudly. “Since we haven’t done introductions.”

Marius blinks.

“Yes, Enjolras,” Cosette says. “Please introduce us to your right hand man.”

Grantaire squirms slightly with the moniker, but Enjolras just says, “This is Grantaire, to be my husband.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Cosette holds out her hand, and Grantaire kisses it like the gentleman he was at one point supposed to be, before everyone threw up their hands in defeat. Her hand is soft, as is her smile.

“Likewise.”

“Please sit.” Enjolras gestures to one of the many chairs in the throneroom. Cosette chooses one directly across from Enjolras; Marius, for some reason or another, chooses to sit backwards on the one directly next to Grantaire. “You didn’t mention the reason for your visit in your letter. I trust all is well?”

“All is great!” enthuses Marius, who leans forward, in front of Grantaire. His chest is against the back of the chair. “The first year of marriage is truly wonderful.”

Cosette smiles fondly. Enjolras rolls his eyes fondly. “We came for a number of different reasons. We haven’t visited in awhile, so I would like to catch up, and your castle is on the way to our next destination. First order of business, though,” she reaches into a small bag hanging off her wrist. “Is my father’s letter of retirement. I know this doesn’t directly effect your part of ruling, but it still is good for you to know.”

Enjolras reaches across the table and takes the letter, opening it with care.

He clears his throat, and begins to read.  

> It is with a heavy heart that I resign from my position as Sewer Commissioner as of the first of this month. It has truly been a joy to work here these past fifty years, and I will treasure the memories. I simply have grown too old to for the physical labor. For those of you with a burning interest in drains, water supply, and sewage disposal, I have enclosed my retirement home’s address. Please feel free to stop by and talk at any time. Even if you are somewhat indifferent to such things, somehow, you can still reach me there. Best, Duke Jean Valjean

“He sounds great,” says Grantaire honestly. It’s strangely uplifting to that that in some places, people have actually found something that they enjoy, and are able to get up in the morning and go do it for the majority of their life.

Cosette narrows her eyes, like she’s expecting him to be making fun of her father. Something in his face must give him away, because her face clears.

“He is,” she confirms. “Easily the kindest man I’ve ever known.” She frowns thoughtfully. “Maybe the second,” she says, and pats Marius on the hand, who beams at her.

It’s slightly sickening, but mostly sweet.

“And what was the other reason?” Enjolras asks, carefully folding the letter and tucking into his pocket.

“Don’t be angry.” That seems a rather difficult request, so given Enjolras’s temperament, and he apparently thinks so as well, because his face contorts. “I received a letter from the Hand of the King after you announced your engagement. Apparently he decided, alone, the solution to the child problem you two will face.”

“The gods are still getting back to me about a uterus,” Grantaire inputs, hoping to relieve some of the tension. It doesn’t, which just relieves his want to live.

“What gods do you even pray to?” Enjolras asks, turning towards him.

“I pick a different one each time.”

“What good does that do? Aren’t you supposed to pick one and make a relationship, or something?”

“Well.” Grantaire holds up two fingers. “One, if the gods do exist, I think they have proven they have a serious thing against me. Not really impetus to make a stronger relationship. Two, I don’t personally believe in god being a person or an entity. I think of it more of as a position, a title, and it can always be usurped by someone else - and thus it’s useless to get to used to one.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Enjolras waves his hands in front of him. “Are you suggesting that the gods are having their own heavenly—”

“Other dimensional,” Grantaire corrects.

“Own other dimensional battle for the position of who gets to be prayed to?”

“Sure,” Grantaire shrugs. “Why not?”

“Well—”

“Prove why not,” Grantaire challenges, which makes Enjolras twitch, and Cosette lean forward.

“I’m sorry to interrupt boys, but we are on a slight schedule.”

Enjolras shakes his head, his hair flopping with the force of it, and his eyes clear from the focus they had a moment ago. “Yes, I’m sorry Cosette. You were saying - the solution to the child problem?”

“Yes, well. He did mention that was dependent on the fact that your marriage will actually go through. But given it will, the Hand...requested that Marius and I begin intimacy immediately following your wedding. As Marius is technically the next in line, with you being an only child, his child will be next in line for the crown, and they’d like to keep with the twenty-five year reign tradition.”

When Enjolras gets angry, his rage is like a fire; you can feel it from feet away, like waves.

“And,” Cosette continues.

“And,” Enjolras mutters angrily. “There’s an and.”

“ _And,_ ” Cosette says more forcefully. “A part of the demand was that I am to move here directly before the child’s birth, so he will be a true born Florinian, and will be raised to be a King by your scholars.”

Grantaire is glad he’s here for the simple fact that he doubt he’d ever be told this otherwise, and he’s been curious about the issue since it was first raised.

There is literally no other reason he’s glad to be there, and now that he knows, he wants to silently sink to the floor and melt into the cracks. He has no business in these matters: not the state, not in the matters of family.

“Marius, Cosette - I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says Marius. He smiles a little, his brown eyes kind and warm, and it’s suddenly a little clearer why Cosette is so clearly besotted. “I grew up here. I don’t mind coming back.”

“You hated growing up here. You could never focus in classes, and I’d always ended up doing your work for you,” Enjolras says. Grantaire straightens. It’s not often he gets insider information into Enjolras’s childhood.

“I mean, being a Duke has never really been for me. But being a Maester has fitted me well - I just had to find what I liked!” Marius looks over to Grantaire. “And you? How do you like being a Duke?”

“I’m a Knight in title, actually.” And a couple of other fucking things that he hates equally.

“But you’ll be a duke.”

Grantaire cocks his head. “Will I?”

“Well, yes.” Marius blinks. “That’s the title given to a man who marries a King.”

Both Enjolras and Grantaire stare. “How did you know that?” Enjolras asks. “None of our men knew that.”

“There was a precedent about seventy years ago, in Pence. He was murdered the day before the inauguration by his to-be-husband, so it isn’t really famous, but the name was chosen long before. It’s in their scribes; I had to translate them for my title.”

“Huh.” Who knew, Maester Marius is more than doe eyes and a wrinkled shirt.

“You’ll have to give up your Maester job,” Enjolras says. “You realize that, right? You’d have to go back to being a Duke.”

“In the letter, the Hand said I could mostly be Duke in name, and he’d make all the decisions for me, while I continue with my meastery. Isn’t that great?”

Hoo boy.

* * *

“He looks like his father,” Grantaire says, just to break the ringing silence after the door closes behind Marius and Cosette, who have turned to go to their room to freshen up before supper.

Enjolras’s head is bowed, his hands gripping the arm of the leather chair in front of him.

“How would you know?”

He gets quiet when he’s legitimately upset about something personal, Grantaire realizes.

“His portrait hangs near the base of the third staircase in the West wing.”

“What were you doing over there?”

Being lost.

“Being lost.”

He winces, but the side of Enjolras’s mouth quirks up, and, suddenly, keeping his dignity doesn’t seem quite so important.

Half of Enjolras’s face is illuminated by a candle on the table, one of only two lights illuminating the room. The sun has fully set now, and the moon is just starting really glow. Grantaire can just barely see it from his vantage point.

“I know it’s not my business, and you dislike prodding, and I’m not ideal, but - yeah, if you want to, y’know, talk, or sigh dramatically, or grind your teeth, I’m here to listen.”

He counts the seconds of silence - nine.

Enjolras nods. “Thank you for the offer.”

Which is the polite way of saying ‘no.’ Rejection in the open air is somehow still more painful than it in the abstract, even when you’re fully prepared for it. He can feel pressure starting to build it behind his eyes, and it’s as stupid as it is expected.

“Well, I suppose that’s my cue.”

“Where are you going?”

“To wash up before the meal. Jehan said he was performing tonight for the guests.”

Enjolras nods, wordless.

“At least they’re happy, Enjolras,” Grantaire says for some reason.

“It’s just - it’s not fair.” Grantaire starts at the real pain in his voice. “I know that it’s not a massive inconvenience for them. Cosette has always wanted children, and she’ll raise a wonderful child. But, just the thought of a group of old men in a room deciding on the sexual practices of my cousin—” He shakes his head, apparently too frustrated to continue.

“Preach,” says Grantaire, with far too little sarcasm.

“Marius is a good man. Smart, in ways. A child like him will be a good man.”

“But not a good leader,” Grantaire reads between the lines.

Enjolras runs his hand through his hair, making it poof even higher, and Grantaire looks down to quell an unbearably fond smile. “He’s kind and he’s believes the best in people, and you’ll never hear me say that’s a flaw. But he’s impressionable.” He lets out a breath. “You need to have a level of...of intransigence, to be good at this.”

“To be bold as fire and cold as ice.”

Enjolras looks at him oddly. “Did you come up with that?”

“No.” Grantaire barks out a laugh. As if he could be so clever. But it’s something he’s been thinking about quite a bit lately, since stumbling upon it in a session with Jehan. “It’s from an ancient text.”

“Ah.” Enjolras blows a piece of his hair out of his eye, but the curl goes directly back into his eyes. Grantaire pulls his sleeves over his hands, so he can clench them out of sight. “Softness is needed in the world - but not this world. Not politics.”

“Marius isn’t the one that would be King,” Grantaire reminds him. “It’d be his child.”

“I know. It’s just—”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretches between them.

Grantaire’s getting really fucking tired of not knowing what to say.

Enjolras nudges him with his elbow. “Go. I’ve kept you from washing up.”

Now that they’re actually talking, having a real, honest to gods conversation, there’s nothing he’d like less than to leave the room. He’s always snorted at the poet’s use of the word “yearn,” but goddamn, there’s something to be said for experience.

* * *

“How long are you staying?” Grantaire asks, reaching across Cosette for the biscuits. Enjolras is at his right, deep in conversation with Combeferre.

“Only a few days,” she answers. She’s a surprisingly messy eater for one trained to be a lady, but Marius has also dropped his chicken leg on the ground and continued to eat it, so perhaps they are a black sheep couple. Not that he minds - black sheeps are more valuable anyhow. “I have a ball to attend in Rand, and this was a stop on the way.”

“When will you be back?”

“Nearing your marriage, I suppose. That’s coming soon, is it not?”

“About a month,” Grantaire confirms. “Enjolras had really pushed the limit of how far back to have the choosing ceremony.”

Cosette gives him a speculative look, and it makes him inhale a little of the wine he was beginning to sip.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I just - it’s nice to see Enjolras relax a little.”

“Relax?” Grantaire repeats.

“Yeah. I just - I think I like him a little better when he’s with you.”

There’s only been a few instances where he’s been completely speechless, and they’ve all seemed to take place in this castle by people who only come up to his chin in height.

He’s saved from having to respond by some page Grantaire thinks name is Magnon announce that the entertainment is about to commence.

Grantaire’s not sure what to expect; Jehan’s eccentric tastes have mixed the classical with the underground, and he’s half expecting it to be some tribal chant.

There’s not much he expected less than an old lullaby in his native tongue that came from before written language.

Jehan’s pronunciation is flawless, of course, his melodic voice echoing against the chamber hall. Someone on the other end of the table is whispering to his neighbor, and Grantaire has to suppress the violent urge to throw his plate of gravy pork at his face. Instead, he focuses on Jehan, not letting his gaze wander from his face. It’s not like his attention is worth as much as the King’s, who is currently gazing out the window behind Grantaire’s head, but it must be worth more than nothing. A lifetime of experiences reminds him that one pair of locked eyes in the room of hundreds of the apathetic means more than can be articulated, at times.

He never misses home, not really. The majority of the time, when he thinks back, it’s mostly relief; if it’s ever a positive emotion, it’s usually just the little jab of nostalgia, nothing beyond a fond little poke in his heart.

But he suddenly remembers back when he was a boy, naught five years old, before his dad got himself dead and his few friends disappeared for the sake of education – the grassy hills he used to run down until he fell, rolling the entire way. There was a dog back then – he can’t remember he name, something dumb, like Furry or Fluffy or Barky. She used to chase him as he fell, barking and yipping, and his bodyguard at the time, Claude, used to laugh, and hum this song as they walked back to the castle, and he suddenly feels such a visceral stab of longing that his hand unconsciously grips the table in front of him.

Jehan finishes with a high note, just slightly sharp, and Grantaire just manages not to stand while applauding, not wanting to embarrass him with his token Guildarian effusiveness.

He stops after a moment, and takes a deep breath. The man across from him, some strategist on the small council, is tapping his foot loudly against his chair, and, at very least, it gives Grantaire something to focus on beyond his stinging eyes. He does not want to cry at fucking supper in front of the entire royal guard.

“I didn’t recognize that language.”

Grantaire glances over at Enjolras. “It’s the native language of Guilder.”

Enjolras blinks twice. “What?  I thought you all just spoke the common tongue. That’s what I was always told.”

“Any more, yes, people are taught in the common tongue. But back a couple generations, Guilder was a language was well as our country. It’s gone out of usage with the rise of transportation and globalization, with the common tongue being more practical. The only people who speak it any more are the very rural, uneducated, and the noblemen who are forced to learn it to preserve our culture.”

“I never knew.”

“I never got the impression you studied Guilder beyond what you were told in the small council chamber.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, before visibly swallowing down whatever words were coming.

“No,” he eventually says. “I suppose not.”

Grantaire regards him a moment, and gives him an awkward smile.

“It was a beautiful song,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire was so not aware this conversation was supposed to continue.

“Yeah, it was my old guard’s favorite.”

“What’s it about?” Enjolras sounds different, quiet and focused, and Grantaire still doesn’t know him well enough to parse what exactly that means.

“Well—” Grantaire sighs. He’s not sure how to explain it – it’s not so much the lyrics of the song, what it says, but what it feels like. The words don’t conjure up an idea; they conjure memories. It’s almost like a collective memory of the people of the country, a tune to hum to make everyone feel the same thing all at once. It’s not a thing easily explained to a foreigner.

“Home.” Grantaire shrugs, after a moment. “It’s about home.”

He sure as hell isn’t going to mention the lyrics that he’s positive made Jehan choose it: _What drove me here when it’s many a fine lass I find in my own townland? I was called into the house of my own true love._

There are things Enjolras doesn’t need to know.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_OGwpczFWM%E2%80%9D) referenced at the end.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there are many emotions in this chapter, beware

The days are slow, but the weeks are fast, and Grantaire finds his way from his room to his stable with no challenge.

“Oh, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac greets, pleased, his hands stilling. “Are you here for Potato?”

“Potato, the cat, you - I’m not picky.”

Courfeyrac nods with a smile. “In that case - would you please wait just a moment?”

Grantaire nods in agreement. He stoops down to pet the cat, who is enthusiastically rubbing up against his shins. She’s orange and little, and Grantaire dubs her Marmalade, before thinking that Courfeyrac probably has already named her.

He rubs her chin with a finger, and looks up to watch Courfeyrac. He’s finished wiping the cleaner off and has hung the bridle up on a hook carefully. He squats to where a bucket it is at his feet and begins to wash his hands to free them of the smelly cleaner. Grantaire watches in idle interest, stroking the cat head to tail as she bats him with her tail.

Courfeyrac wipes his hands off on a rag carefully, sets it down, and walks up to Grantaire. He stops before him.

“Would you please stand?” he asks pleasantly.

Bemused, Grantaire does.

Within a moment, Courfeyrac’s arms are around his shoulders, and he’s being squeezed tight. Slightly belatedly, Grantaire reaches his own arms around, and holds on.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac whispers in his ear. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Oh, um,” Grantaire stutters. “Yeah. Okay, sure.”

Courfeyrac squeezes once more, and pulls back, his hands landing on Grantaire’s elbows.

“He came to my room last night at like, three AM. Got me out of bed, the bastard. I was quietly yelling at him, and he just wasn’t saying anything, and he just wordlessly handed me this piece of paper. You know what it was?”

Grantaire shakes his head.

“It was a copy of the official letter sent to the land of Pence, apologizing for Combeferre backing out of the marriage agreement due to ‘personal problems.’ It was the records keeper’s copy, I saw the seal, which means the real one had already been sent out.”

The cat bumps Grantaire’s shin with her head.

“Other…” Courfeyrac’s eyes flick to the side. “Things happened first, but after a while, we got to talking. He told me you were the final factor that made him go for it, declare it all to hell.”

“All good now?” Grantaire asks.

Courfeyrac laughs, and finally drops his hold on Grantaire. “No, of course not. This will still be a scandal, and Combeferre still doesn’t want to come out in the open with it until Enjolras is in power, and I still have no idea what this would do to my own relative social standing, and I don’t know about my job, and I’m still kind of pissed at him, but—” He grins, dopey. “But these are things I can worry about now. The problems X Y and Z, since the almighty A is finally gone.”

“Are you worried about fitting in at all?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Of course, a little. But one of the benefits of being secretly with Combeferre is that I have an in-depth knowledge of the inner workings of this country. When you’re with him, you learn, whether you want to or not.”

“And you wanted to,” Grantaire guesses.

Courfeyrac’s eyes glint, and Grantaire suddenly gets an image in his head of what Courfeyrac could have been, or still may be, given the same opportunities as a royal, and the cunning, shrewd man that would produce. If Enjolras could lead a revolution, and Combeferre could design one, Courfeyrac would have been the one to set it in motion.

Oh, but what a folly the world is, suppressing a could have been life due to name.

“I’m happy for you,” Grantaire says, meaning it.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac laughs. “Me too.”

Grantaire squeezes his shoulder. “I hope it all works out.”

“Oh, it will. It’s a little frustrating that guests will start to arrive next week for your wedding. They’ll be hundreds of horses to organize, and I’ll have so many people to recruit and train - you couldn’t have chosen to give me the love of my life at a more convenient time?”

Grantaire chuckles, and goes to respond, but the joking words fill some small place inside Courfeyrac, it seems, because he steps forward and hugs Grantaire once more.

“Thank you.”

The cat meows.

 

“How is it going with Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks, hours later. They’ve finished loading the new shipment of hay into the loft in the barn, and Grantaire’s completely covered in pieces of it.

“It’s going,” Grantaire says. No matter how many times he hits his sock on the stall, hay still seems to be stuck to it. “Better, as of the last week or so. It hasn’t been easy.”

“Yeah, you two don’t seem to make anything easy.”

Grantaire wants to turn and give him a look, but Courfeyrac’s busy measuring out grain for the horse’s meal that night, and he isn’t watching.

“That was impolite.”

“Apologies, your royal majesty.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“I wager you probably can.”

“What do you know of Marius?”

Courfeyrac looks up at that, surprised. His eyebrow quirks, and Grantaire sees an odd little smile creep on his face.

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, he’s next in line for the King, right?”

Courfeyrac nods. He pours a cup of grain into a bucket, pushes it out of the way, and grabs a new one.

“Sir Marius,” he says after a moment. “Is very cute, as I’m sure you noticed.”

That’s not what Grantaire particularly wanted to know, but it’s true, so he just cocks his head in agreement.

“Do you know him well?”

“Sir Maruis grew up here. He was always kind, but a royal. I don’t think he meant anything by it, he was just absentminded. The type to forget his horse in a field because he found a flower he wanted to inspect, then found a path, and then walked several miles and forgot where he put it, leaving the young apprentice stable boy to chase an annoyed chestnut around a field that had a lot of badger holes.”

It doesn’t sound like a hypothetical situation.

“I can’t give you an expert opinion, since he moved when I was still a boy, and I had little interaction with him - but his horses are well treated and cared for, and slightly plump, which tells me he’s a decent person.”

Courfeyrac pauses.

“I’m not sure I’d trust him to hold a sharp stick, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Actually, I think that’s here,” Grantaire says.

Courfeyrac pushes the last bucket away from himself, and wipes his brow. Standing, he asks, “Why do you ask, anyway?”

“He’s next in line. If something happens to Enjolras, it’ll be me - and if I rescind, I want to know what I’m actually doing to the country.”

“Thinking a little bit too far in the future there, if I may say,” Courfeyrac says, tucking a rag into his belt. His shirt is damp from sweat, the hot summer day almost at its peak.

“I know. I don’t think anything will happen to Enjolras - but he’s told me several times now that he doesn’t want peace.”

“Enjolras is a leader, Grantaire, not a martyr.”

“What’s the difference other than success?”

Courfeyrac doesn’t appear to have an answer, but does swing an arm around his shoulders, and pulls him close.

“One day at a time, my friend.”

“And what do I worry about today?”

They begin to walk down the aisle, arm in arm.

“The fact that I keep feeding Potato so many extra carrots she’s starting to look like an actual potato.”

Grantaire laughs, loud and throaty, and Courfeyrac looks over in surprise.

“Oh, so that’s how.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Courfeyrac says, pulling him closer. “Nothing at all.”

* * *

He’s headed back up to his room to try to get the last of the hay from his hair; he’s almost to the hallway before his when he hears footsteps behind him.

“Grantaire,” the Hand barks. Grantaire closes his eyes, steeling himself, mood instantly souring, before turning on his heel and pasting a smile on his face.

“The great advisor,” he greets. “What can I do you for?”

“Today is the deadline of my letter to the Queen of Yen would have to be postmarked,” he says, in such a tone so harsh that Grantaire can’t even hold the fake smile.

“Is that so?”

“What do I have to do to get you to leave?”

“Nothing,” says Grantaire in a moment of uncalculated honesty. “There is nothing you can do.”

The Hand, after a brief, shocked stare, has the temerity to laugh. “Oh, I doubt that very much, Grantaire.”

Blood rushes to his ears, and for the first time in a long, long while, he can feel something snap inside his chest, something dark and pulsing and shifting past angry. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

“We have money. Name your price. You have one - someone like you always does.”

“I kindly remind you that in a month or so I will have more political power than you, so you’d be wise to hold your tongue.”

He can see the surprise on the Hand’s face before it’s gone, replaced by a locked jaw.

“You don’t have much of a use, do you?” the Hand says, and it shouldn’t, but he can feel that one all over. “How can I bribe someone who has no interests or goals worth appealing to?”

“I come from old money,” Grantaire says after a moment. “In my opinion, none of us really have a use.”

The Hand shakes his head, teeth gritted. “Name your price.”

Grantaire puts a hand on his arm. “Look, one day, I hope you’re able to get that surgery to remove your head from your ass so you can hear properly - I have no price. For all your power, all your money, you have nothing to bargain with, nothing to threaten me with, that would convince me to go. I am going to viscerally enjoy sacking you from power the moment I take that oath.”

He turns, his heart beating in his ears so loudly he can’t even understand what the Hand is saying behind him, but he can’t scrounge up even a modicum of regret.  

He turns the corner, sees the door to the lawkeeper’s library, and quietly opens it, wanting some peace and a hiding place.

Grantaire slips in and closes the door right as Combeferre settles on the top of a bookcase, the ladder still wobbling from where he had stepped off. Both stare, frozen.

Grantaire opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, before closing, obviously lost for words. After a moment, he just makes a helpless, questioning gesture.

“Uh,” Combeferre stutters. He stops a moment, looking to the side for any type of inspiration. A moment ticks past. “You know, I wish I could come up with a valid explanation for this, but my imagination isn’t working right now. I’ve got nothing.”

“Just - why? Are you safe up there?”

Combeferre exhales. “I mean, probably. As long as it doesn’t teeter.”

“Again, why?”

“There’s a pigeon up here. One of the councilmen offered to get a weapon, but I told him I’d take care of it.”

“There’s no need to hurt it,” Grantaire agrees. “Here, let me help.”

“No, no, no need for the future King’s husband to hurt himself.”

Grantaire makes a dismissive gesture. “I got this.”

Grantaire does not, in fact, got this, but his mood has already rebounded two-fold, so he examines the room with a careful eye.

He reaches into his pocket and finds, as he expected, a bit of a crumbled muffin from this morning’s breakfast. He places some of the crumbs on the windowsill and then walks back to Combeferre. He stands on his tiptoes, and, combined with Combeferre’s oddly long arms, manages to hand off a good portion of the crumbs without too many stretching pains.

The pigeon ruffles its feathers but steps forward, plucking the crumbs from Combeferre’s hand. With a quick motion, Combeferre grabs the pigeon, who squawks, but seems relatively unperturbed by the entire thing.

Combeferre hands the bird to Grantaire. He takes it gingerly, and walks it to the window, quickly placing it on the sill and slamming the glass shut.

He feels rather than see Combeferre jump down from the bookcase, as the entire floor rattles with the force of his landing.

“Thank you, Grantaire,” Combeferre says from behind. Grantaire turns, and there he is, not a foot away, brushing off some crumbs from his vest. “I appreciate the help.”

Grantaire rubs his head with the hand that’s not sticky from a muffin. “Don’t worry about it, man,” he says.

He looks out the window at the grey skies over the fields, wishing he had something in his hands to make this conversation a little less awkward.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre asks, probably catching on that Grantaire isn’t normally quite this quiet.

Grantaire shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Maudlin attitude.”

“Right,” Combeferre replies.

The silence is bordering on excruciating, and just as Grantaire is ready to make an excuse that Feuilly is probably looking for him to clean his room, Combeferre rests a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Grantaire looks up and catches his eye - they’re too serious, and he can’t help taking a step back.

“Grantaire, I don’t know how to do this, I never have - but I have to actually thank you.”

“Oh god,” Grantaire says, squeezing his eyes shut. “First Courfeyrac, now you. I get the picture.”

“Grantaire—”

“I _get_ the _picture,_ ” Grantaire bites back, and immediately feels guilty, because Combeferre has done a grand total of zero things to deserve that tone.

He barely gets out an “I’m sorry” before Combeferre interrupts, “No, none of that. Grantaire, you can’t take thanks any more than I can give them. But some things need to be said, out loud.”

That stupid fucking pigeon is still on the windowsill, now pecking at the brick.

“Thank you. It’s not perfect, and I don’t have it all figured out - but we’re stepping towards happiness. Thank you.”

Grantaire swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “You’re welcome.”

Combeferre nods, apparently satisfied. “Well, I should let you go. Might be a long day.”

“For everyone else, maybe,” mumbles Grantaire.

“Come again?”

“Well, I just don’t really. Uh, I just don’t really get anything done, do I?”

“You saved a pigeon today,” Combeferre replies lightly.

“No one cares.”

“The pigeon does.”

Grantaire shrugs, and unconsciously brings his thumb to his mouth, chewing on a thumbnail.

Combeferre evaluates him for a moment. “Look, Grantaire, I’m not going to pretend to know what’s going on in your head.”

“The horror pumpkin,” Grantaire mutters.

“But, you should know, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Well, you’re about the only one.”

“I’m not,” Combeferre says, with just the right amount of amused certainty that Grantaire just can’t, just can’t not believe him. “And those who aren’t - I encourage you to consider the source. Some people’s good opinion is more insulting than their hatred.”

Combeferre leaves after a hand squeezing Grantaire’s shoulder, and with it, he takes a lot of the weight.

“Oh, by the way,” he says, stopping in the doorway. Grantaire turns. “Enjolras has a present for you. He won’t ever say it’s from him - but you should know, regardless. It’s in your room.”

* * *

He’s expecting a plate of food.

He’s not expecting Joly and Bossuet to be sitting on his bed, playing poker with a deck of cards.

Both their heads snap up when he enters, and he can see smiles taking over their faces, but its fuzzy from the tears that are suddenly flooding his eyes.

In a moment, he’s hit by a small force, enough to make him step back several feet, and his arms automatically go around to Joly to stabilize them.

“How? I mean, what did you—I mean, who—I mean—How? How?”

“Someone wrote a letter to Guilder about a month ago. It came a few weeks after we got back, and it was requesting that I come back and Bossuet be allowed to come here and work at the stables, since he has experience with horses, given he was a knight. We agreed immediately, set out a couple weeks later,” Joly explains.

“You wanted to do that?” Grantaire asks, slightly disbelieving. He may not be the _greatest_ at it, but Bossuet loved being a knight.

“Sure!” Bossuet says cheerfully. “I don’t care too much what I do, so long I do it around you two.”

“Well, shit,” Grantaire says. “If I’d known that—”

Joly is still octopused around Grantaire, and he squeezes Grantaire’s ribs uncomfortably. “Known that, what?”

“Nothing.”

“Grantaire.” A squeeze. For someone a foot shorter than Grantaire, he has a remarkably hard hug. It must be all those muscles from carrying food and polishing armor and doing laundry. “What?”

“I was told Joly would be able to stay, but Bossuet wouldn’t, given his knightly duties,” Grantaire admits. “If I’d known you could have stayed in a different role, I may have pressed.”

“I could have stayed?” Joly repeats. He pulls back to look Grantaire in the eye, his own narrowed. “You didn’t mention that to me.”

“I thought you’d rather stay with Bossuet.”

“And you didn’t think that should be my choice?”

“I just didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t,” Joly says cheerfully. “But nothing new there.”

The casual camaraderie to his insults is hard to explain, but it makes Grantaire bend down and capture him in a hug that lifts him off his feet.

“Fucking hell, I missed you.”

Joly’s arms snake around Grantaire’s middle, and there he is again, hurting Grantaire’s ribs. Bossuet’s still sitting on the bed, grinning so wide it looks painful, and Grantaire lets him slip out of his vision to squeeze his own eyes shut, and squeeze a little tighter.

It’s a happiness he didn’t know he could feel, so physical he feels lightheaded. A hand makes its way to cradle Joly’s head, and he closes his eyes.

* * *

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, knocking on the frame of the door.

Enjolras looks up, placing a finger in his book. “Yes?”

“Could I ask you for a favor?”

Enjolras blinks several times, like he’s processing, before sitting up abruptly, his knee audibly hitting against the arm of the chair as he swings his legs down. “Yes,” he says quickly. “Yes, name it.”

“Now that Joly’s back,” Enjolras’s face remains remarkably still. “I was hoping he could be reinstated as my manservant. This leaves Feuilly in an uncomfortable position. I was wondering if you could somehow promote him. I’m not too versed in the ranks of the servants here, but I don’t want this to be seen badly on him. I know he likes hard work, so I was thinking maybe he could apprentice under Courfeyrac or Bahorel? That would be a promotion, right?”

Enjolras blinks at him several times, enough for Grantaire to start to be somewhat uncomfortable.

“It’s not a favor if it’s for another person.”

This time, Grantaire blinks. “What?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. He appears to shake off wherever he was going with that, and smiles. “Yes, of course. I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras nods in welcome.

Grantaire turns to leave and makes it a step.

He closes his eyes, shaking his head at himself, before steeling his will, and turning back around.

“Thank you for Joly and Bossuet. I know it was you, and I don’t know when you decided or why you decided to do this for me, but thank you from every last piece of me.”

Enjolras looks slightly uncomfortable, but he nods. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you’re happy. But you don’t have to thank me—”

“No.” Grantaire shuts him down immediately. “No, I do. Some things need to be said, out loud. You didn’t have to, but you did, and thank you.”

“Okay, okay,” Enjolras says softly. “You’re welcome.”

Grantaire tries to smile at him, but it probably comes out a little pained. Sincerity is so vulnerable. “Date tonight?”

It’s the first time he’s instigated it, and by Enjolras’s small movement of surprise, he knows it.    

“Yeah,” Enjolras replies, a touch too late. “Yes, of course. Before ten - I have a meeting with Combeferre.”

“Okay. Eight, then.” Two hours, good gods, he hopes he’s not reaching too high here. “Your quarters?”

“Okay. Yeah, good. Sure.”

Grantaire nods and turns to go. He hesitates in the doorway, but moves out. He can hear Enjolras fall back down in his chair, loudly.

* * *

“What about this shirt?”

Joly doesn’t look up from where he’s polishing his own leather boots. “It’s great, matches your hair.”

Grantaire holds onto the closet door frame, unbuttoned shirt hanging loose. “You didn’t even look.”

“I’ve already seen all four of your shirts,” Joly reasons, rubbing at the heel with a cloth. “And they all go with your hair.”

“I got new ones since coming here.”

“And you really think the tailor here was going to make a shirt that didn’t go with your hair?”

“You could just spare us both this and look up,” Grantaire says, exasperated.

Joly looks up, eyes flicking up and down Grantaire’s frame, assessing. He nods, thinking, then announces, “it goes with your hair,” and looks back down at his boot.

“Helpful,” he retorts.

“You still have hay in it, by the way.”

“Mother _fucker._ ”

Grantaire’s shaking his head, trying to free the pieces from his curly hair, when he hears, “Grantaire.” It’s a woman’s voice, young and deep, and accompanied by a knock on the door.

“Enter,” he calls, before immediately realizing that he should probably have buttoned his shirt before given a lady entry. He sits up as she enters the room, and then comes to an abrupt stop when she sees his state.

“Oh,” she says.

“My apologies,” Grantaire hurries to say, buttoning his shirt. He definitely misses two, and he hears Joly snort from his stool.

“It’s fine sir, I’m not complaining.”

Her skin is too dark, far too dark to reveal any kind of blush, but the way she stares at the ceiling and slight head shake conveys the same information.

It’s still embarrassing, but he can’t help feel slightly flattered.

“Anyway, sire, Enjolras asked me to remind you of your appointment tonight. He wrote a note detailing where to go. I’ll leave it with your manservant,” she says, holding out a piece of paper and fluttering it towards Joly, who stands, walks to Grantaire’s side, and takes it with a smile.

“Good day, sirs,” she says.

“Good day, good lady,” Joly responds, which makes Grantaire still his awkward hands from adjusting his hair and raise an eyebrow at Joly, who flushes.

Grantaire stands, smiling at Joly, who immediately avoids his glance.

If there’s anything twenty five years in someone’s presence teaches you, it’s their tells.  

“Who was that?” Grantaire singsongs, just to see Joly blush. Joly does not disappoint.

“Just a messenger,” Joly mutters.

Grantaire vaguely remembers her - she had delivered Enjolras the message that the Pontmercy’s were there that one day on the pitch.

“And you likeeee her?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“There’s plenty of things you don’t say. I’ve never heard you mention that you have two knees, but it’s definitely still true.”

“Hush or I’ll make you,” Joly says, but the threat is sort of ruined by his smile, and the fact that he comes up to Grantaire’s shoulder, and his elbow in Grantaire’s stomach just makes him laugh.

“Joly, my dear Joly,” Grantaire says dramatically, throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him close. “If you’re not honest with me, how do you expect me to play wingman?”

“I don’t think the future King should really be playing wingman,” Joly grumbles, though he most certainly has a point. Grantaire doesn’t want her to feel coerced.

He opens his mouth to say so, but Joly hits him in the face with the paper.

“You’re a menace,” Joly says, before stalking out of the room.

Grantaire smiles fondly. Truly the worst manservant.

* * *

The note is fairly detailed directions, complete with a poorly drawn map, that leads him to a expansive and ornately decorated room he’s fairly certain is Enjolras’s study.

He walks in with no knock, and if Enjolras is surprised, he hides it well.

“Grantaire,” he greets. He doesn’t stand. “Come, take a seat.”

He inclines his head towards the one next to him, which Grantaire gladly takes with minimal noise. There’s a half deck of cards in front of Enjolras, the other half in his hands, being shuffled swiftly and with enough skill that spells out his comfort level with cards.

“Any particular game?” Grantaire asks.

“I was thinking we could build a house.”

Grantaire blinks.

“Why?”

“Why not?” Enjolras counters.

Grantaire shrugs, and picks up the half deck, spinning them in the palm of his hand. “Fair enough, I suppose. I just expected a more thought out reason.”

“More thought out than it’s innocuous enough you won’t get annoyed at it and easy enough that we can do it while talking?”

“Yes,” Grantaire jokes. “That’s rubbish.”

Enjolras barks out a laugh, surprised, loud and almost honking, like a goose that got kicked in the head, and it’s wholly obnoxious, and one of the best sounds Grantaire’s ever heard. It occurs to him, later, that it’s the first time he’s ever heard him laugh.

“Will you participate anyway?”

His eyes are twinkling slightly, and Grantaire wills away the sinking feeling of inadequacy in him, and manages to smile back.

“I’ll manage.”

 

“I have to say, I’m a little underwhelmed.”

“Maybe there’s a reason neither of us are structural engineers,” Grantaire says.

The cards lay over the table, about forty, flat, and remarkably not house like.

“Are you up for a game, then?” Enjolras asks, hands sweeping the cards into a pile, gaze firmly on the table. A pause - then, “I’d like for you to stay."

Their discussion during the building was tentative, easy, and meaningless, general comments on their days and how Grantaire was learning the halls, and still, it had a swell, a ball of emotion growing in Grantaire’s chest, his hands shaking slightly with the the force of his insecure affection bubbling, just enough to make the cards twitch enough to fall, and it’s terrifying to feel this out of his depth, and part of him just wants to curl in a small ball under his covers, turn his face to the vulnerable greatness of letting himself being open for inspection of love or rejection, but he isn’t alone in this, and turning away isn’t only about him - Enjolras is putting out a hand, an offer to stay longer, and there’s something different about turning away from an implication than a statement, and there’s some part of him, down underneath the self loathing and dark depths of his insecurity, that is incredibly tired of himself and his own cowardice.

“Sure,” he says, putting the cards into a small stack. A king of hearts is on top. “I’ll stay.”

“Any preference on the game?”

“Rummy,” Grantaire decides.

Enjolras quirks a brow at him, and after a small hesitation, says, “Is that because of rum or the game?”

Grantaire consciously decides to take that as teasing instead of a chastisement.

“Rum is better for flavor, not better for drinking.”

“Explain,” Enjolras says, taking a seat. He pulls his chair in and begins to shuffle.

“Rum flavors food. When you’re drinking liquor, you’re not drinking for flavor - you’re drinking to drink.”

“To drink? Not to be drunk?”

“Being drunk doesn’t actually help anything.” Grantaire flips the cards in his hands, tapping them on the table.

“And drinking does?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Sober and drunk aren’t really the thoughts when you’re an alcoholic. You drink to drink, because while drinking doesn’t make anything better, it’s worse to not be drinking.”

Enjolras nods seriously, and after a moment, “I don’t understand.”

Grantaire laughs, watching Enjolras’s hands move, shuffling the cards, quick and moving. “That’s a good thing.”

Enjolras doesn’t respond, but does start dealing the cards, ten to each.

“I, uh,” Grantaire starts, scratching his neck. Enjolras looks up, and something about his expression has Grantaire continuing. “I first learned this game the first time I snuck out of the castle, actually.”

“Do tell.”

“My father had just gone off to some war, I’m not sure, I was eleven and didn’t keep track, and I had just been through combat training for like, seven hours, and the sword was too heavy, and my arms really hurt, but when my mom died they had fired the nurse on the spot, thinking I wouldn’t make it out of the delivery room, and, well, anyway, this is off topic, the point is, I didn’t have a hired medical practitioner for me and then my dad was always too angry at me and my birth to hire one, and, at that point, I hadn’t learned how to use my mouth, yet, you know?”

“Meaning sarcasm, I presume,” Enjolras clarifies.

“Meaning my charming wiles,” Grantaire corrects. “Or heavy sarcasm, whatever, the point is, I was too afraid to ask for someone to help me with my muscles, but Joly told me that his mother had been a nurse, and back in the village, she had something that helped him when he came back sore from all his chores.”

All the cards are dealt, but Enjolras keeps his face down on the table, watching Grantaire.

“Anyway, I asked him to take me, and we snuck out at nightfall. We walked four and a half miles, at which point my legs hurt about as much as my arms, and at which point I decided to buy Joly a horse, because he did this _every weekend,_ gods bless his soul, and when we got there, his mom turned out to be on a few day job, delivering some baby in a nearby town, and she hadn’t been expecting us, so she wasn’t there. But we had gotten all the way there, you know, so we decided to stop by the village pub for some food.

“Anyway, there was a group of men there, and someone must have recognized me or the quality of my clothes, because he offered to teach me the game, first three free, and after that, we could bet on who would win.”

“Did you do it?” Enjolras asks.

“Of course,” or there wouldn’t be a point to this story, Grantaire doesn’t say. “And I lost all of my money, of course, and then the bartender kicked us out, and we walked back in the dark, and then the next day I fell over when in combat training because my legs were so tired.”

“My good gods,” Enjolras says, sounding a little horrified, which wasn’t Grantaire’s intention.

“Anyway - Joly and I learned, you know? So it became our pastime. And whenever one of us wanted to sneak out, we always had it as our code word, that we wanted to go see ‘Rummy.’ Honestly, we used it up until the point I moved here. We probably still will.”

“Guilder needs better guards,” Enjolras says, picking up his cards.

“I did the same thing here,” Grantaire points out, picking up his own.

“Since when is a condemnation of Guilder a compliment to Florin?” Enjolras counters, and Grantaire laughs slightly, conceding the point.

“I learned from my mother,” Enjolras says, and something in Grantaire glows a little at the reciprocation of stories. “I did a lot of diplomacy training, which meant an extreme amount of time sitting and waiting for people who were not on time. She kept a deck in a pocket in her dress.”

“They have pockets?”

“She specially asked for them.”

Grantaire smiles, and Enjolras returns it, and something settles.

 

One game passes, two games, pass, and halfway through three, Grantaire thinks to ask, to take another step he was avoiding.

“The council meeting is still tomorrow, correct?”

Enjolras nods. His tongue is sticking slightly outside of his mouth.

“Anything I should be aware of?”

“No,” Enjolras says easily. He’s squinting at his cards, before rearranging the third and fourth. Grantaire frowns at him.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“So, are we going to sit there in silence for two hours…?”

Enjolras finally looks up from his cards. “No, of course not. There’s some items on the agenda, but nothing you need to worry about.”

Grantaire doesn’t believe that. “Really, now. Nothing you want to discuss?”

Enjolras sighs and rolls his eyes slightly. “Look, I decided to stop talking about legislation and politics with you.”

Grantaire falls back in his chair, stunned. “Why?”

“Why?” Enjolras asks, sounding legitimately confused. “Because you’ve told me directly and in about every indirect way you possibly can that you don’t care about it. I’m not going to force you - it’s pointless and disappointing for both of us.”

“Indirect ways? Like what?”

“You skipped a small council meeting? You didn’t deliver my legislation? You stare at the wall through every meeting?”

“Well, yes—”

“Every time we talk about legislation you just make an inappropriate joke instead of offer any true ideas?”

“But—”

“Every time I bring it up you go silent? You’ve mentioned several times that you were forced into politics and want nothing to do with it?”

Grantaire doesn’t know how to respond. He’s hurt, stupidly hurt, like every moment he could possibly construe of Enjolras disliking him focals is legitimized, little pinpricks from the past few months gouging at the same time, and it’s physical, and somewhere in his head, he recognizes it’s stupid, what he’s feeling is unwarranted, but it doesn’t stop the reaction.

Enjolras puts down his cards, frowning at him. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“Happy I’m not worth discussing legislation with?”

“What?” he says, baffled. “Happy you don’t _have_ to.”

“You didn’t even ask. It seems more like you just want to cut me out.”

“Fine!” Enjolras says, hands flying in the air. “Do you want to be involved?”

Ah, gods, he’s backed himself into a corner.

“No, never mind, it’s fine. Whatever.”

Enjolras puts his head in his hands, and Grantaire feels a stab of guilt.

“Look, I’m going to go - you only have a half hour until your meeting anyway. I’m sorry.” He scrambles to his feet. “Or not, I don’t know.”

He leaves.

* * *

“How’d it go?”

Joly’s sitting on his bed, and appearings to be sewing a hole in one of Grantaire’s shirts.

Grantaire walks over to the bed and promptly pushes Joly off.

He lands on the floor with a thump, and, without looking, Grantaire crawls under the covers.

“That was unnecessary,” he hears from the floor.

“Shut up.”

“That bad? What happened?”

“He’s decided I’m not worth talking to about legislation anymore.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about legislation?”

“I don’t. But that’s different from him deciding I’m not worth talking to about it. And he backhandedly called me an asshole.”

“Why and why?”

“He says that I don’t pay attention in council meetings and that I’m always inappropriate instead of serious at the wrong moment.”

“Hm.”

Grantaire knows that tone; it’s the same on Joly always uses when he wants you to ask him what he’s feeling because he doesn’t feel like he has the authority to outright say it.

It’s a situation that tends to happen a lot between them.

Grantaire snuffles into the pillow. “Speak your mind, Joly.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I’d be out of line.”

“Joly,” he half mumbles into his pillow. “You could tell me to jump off a cliff and I wouldn’t get rid of you. Just be honest.”

Joly hesitates. “Don’t you think it’s a little...juvenile to be mortally wounded when someone calls you out for your own bad behavior?”

Grantaire’s hurt despite himself. “Ouch. Little harsh.”

“Just being honest, darling. Just because you have feelings doesn’t mean they’re always right. You haven’t seem to have given him any indication that you _want_ to be involved, the opposite, really - and then when he doesn’t involve you, you get hurt? That hardly seems fair.”

“But—”

“But nothing, asshole. Did he say anything that wasn’t true?”

“No,” Grantaire admits.

“And was he rude about it? Did he do it to hurt you?”

“No.”

“And was his decision logical from his point of view? And if so, do you have any right to be acting like you're a cat and he stepped on your paw?”

Grantaire mulls it over. He turns - Joly is standing at his bed, arms crossed. “This,” he says. “Is why I need you.”

“Think with your brain instead of your emotions,” Joly advises, sitting back on the bed, and bending to pick up the shirt once again. “Everyone who deals with you will thank you.”

Grantaire kicks him in the back, just hard enough that he drops the shirt again.

“You’re truly the worst manservant in existence.”

“Go apologize,” Joly advises.

Grantaire stands.

* * *

He finds him in Jehan’s study.

The door is mostly closed, just a sliver of light coming from underneath, which was the only reason Grantaire thought to check it - he almost walked right past.

He stopped and waited a moment, paranoid it may be the Hand of the King.

A moment passes, and there’s Combeferre’s low timbre, words just discernable with concentration.

Grantaire hesitates with his hand lightly on the wood - interruption is never appreciated.

He’s considering the pros and cons of waiting versus leaving and just dealing with it tomorrow, his mind focusing on his own thoughts, but he perks up when he hears his name, his ears unconsciously tuning into the conversation.

“—Grantaire seems to have had mixed, but mostly positive, results.”

“Meaning?” Enjolras asks. His voice is slightly softer; he must be further from the door.

“It seems to be helping you gain traction with the commoners, but it’s further angering the loyalists who see it as a betrayal to the ideals of the throne.”

“All of the loyalists?” Enjolras asks, almost unhearable.

Grantaire leans in unconsciously.

“No, not all - some see it as a progression for the monarchy, the same way some commoners see it as an abomination. This isn’t a direct attack on the monarchy, not yet, so the response has been slightly muted - most of the changing winds of support is extrapolation.”

Grantaire feels a thrill of unease.

 _Not yet,_ Grantaire repeats to himself. _Not yet?_

“There has been an unexpected result,” Combeferre continues, “of some loyalists seeing the fact that the crown has been unable to stop you a sign of a weakness.”

“We don’t want a revolt against the crown,” Enjolras says. “We’d have to change our entire tactic.”

Grantaire toes at the door, pushing it open a further inch.

The voices become slightly clearer.

“Loyalists aren’t going to revolt,” Combeferre answers.

Another inch. Louder yet.

“Nor are the commoners, who support you.”

Another inch. Louder.

“I still think the chances of a revolution are minute to none - loyalists want the crown, commoners want you - your best chance is taking the crown and then instigating the new government in a few years when the dust settles. The struggle will be full trust of the commoners of the switch over - they just don’t trust you yet; you’ve been part of the crown for your entire life, they see you as fully entrenched in the system.”

Grantaire is now standing back up against the door, hidden, but with enough room to walk in without any noise.

“I have to be honest,” he hears Enjolras say. “I expected a little more backlash over Grantaire, what he is from Guilder, and all. And a he.”

Grantaire’s heart pounds.

“I tend to agree,” Combeferre says. “For some reason or another, the response has been muted. Gods knows why, but the people don’t seem to mind him.”

Later, Grantaire will blame his outburst on his surprise and anger of the talk of revolutionizing a government he is a part of with no consultation in the slightest; in reality, it’s more the hurt he feels ripple through him at the confirmation Combeferre can’t use his large brain to even imagine a reason good enough that people wouldn’t revolt in hatred against him.

“Hello boys,” he says, pushing the door open with a hard smack. His pinky finger was bent oddly against the door, and forever he will remember the sharp spike of pain that he hides in a fist.

Enjolras jumps, whirling around, while Combeferre noticeably startles in place.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says in surprise, once he has grabbed the table in support. “How long—”

Grantaire decides immediately he doesn’t want to wade through the bullshit of denials and accusations, and just asks without any preamble, “So you’re planning to dismantle the monarchy?”

Enjolras’s mouth drops open slightly, while Combeferre’s clicks shut.

“Don’t you think if you were having a secret meeting about your revolutionary plans you may have wanted to do it _with the door closed and not where the current leaders can overhear?_ ”

“The door doesn’t close,” Combeferre says immediately, his face betraying that he obviously didn’t mean to say it. “The hinge is just slightly off.”

“So,” Grantaire sneers, and Enjolras’s jaw tightens. “Any other place in the castle except this exact spot would have better, is that what I’m hearing?”

“We wanted the book on the Birr revolution to see their reformed constitution,” Combeferre answers. His hand twitches, and even Grantaire can tell, with Combeferre’s normally inscrutable face, he looks guilty. “The rooms are normally locked at this time of night - we didn’t think anyone would be around.”

“Obviously logical.”

“You’re angry,” Enjolras realizes. He hasn’t seemed to blink since Grantaire stormed in.

“As ever, your observational skills are unparallelled.”

He can see the surprise on Enjolras’s face, just for a moment before it’s gone.

“Why are you angry?” Enjolras asks, surprised and serious, and for a moment, a fleeting moment, Grantaire fiercely hates him.

“So what are you planning, then?” Grantaire evades. He leans his hip against the table, two paces away. Both their gazes are locked on him. “Complete removal? Am I going to be in the rock quarry next spring?”

“No, no,” Combeferre placates. “Nothing like that. Enjolras wants to fade out the monarchy and establish a Republic, but abdicating and dissolution wouldn’t solve anything but create anarchy. Revolutions are messy and take outrage we don’t have; it’d be faster, easier, and cleaner to do it from the inside. We want to slowly change the fabric of how the government runs. We’ll first instigate an oligarchy, which is—”

“I know what it is, asshole,” Grantaire interrupts. “Then what?”

“After the oligarchy, we are hoping to fade it to a representative democracy. This won’t be an overnight process - people have to adjust, the system has to adjust, we have to change the power.”

“This was your plan all along,” Grantaire realizes. It feels like the world just started spinning in space faster, whipping them around, like an imaginary wind of his emotions blowing the room into a tornado, fueled by his beating heart and the thoughts in his head flying faster than debris. “You knew, at that choosing ceremony, you knew that it didn’t matter who you picked because you’d be rid of them in a few years.”

“Not true,” Enjolras rejects immediately. “That’s not true. I didn’t know - I still don’t know - if this will even work. We’ll need years to drudge up enough appointments and public faith and support to get the ball moving. I’m not even sure it’ll be complete in my lifetime, or even be able to be adequately started. The idea was in place, yes, but circumstances change. There was a good chance I’d have to stay King for a considerable time, and I wanted someone I could rule with. And, regardless, I wanted the male marriage thing to get going. Take your victories where you can and when you can.”

“When were you thinking of telling your soon to be spouse? ‘Oh, hey honey, today we’re no longer leaders to the entire country of people - we’re obsolete! Have a nice day in your entirely different world, goodbye.’”

“That won’t even happen for at least a decade!” Enjolras’s eyes narrow, and the temperature drops. “And, for the record, when exactly did you want me to tell you? During the six minutes you’ll actually look at me a day, when was it you wanted me to sit you down and have a nice lengthy conversation about politics?”

“Were you planning on mentioning it, ever?” Grantaire demands.

Enjolras’s chest is noticeably heaving in growing fury. “I was planning to tell my spouse when I got to the point we were actually to a point of being able to talk for more than five minutes at a time. Or maybe when I knew their parents name. Or hell,” his surprised, shocked silent nature has completely evaporated, anger fully taking its place, tone rising. His hands are flying, gesticulating. “Even what they do on their free time, or a single like or dislike. I thought that might be a day, but here we are, months in. It’s like I’m engaged to a brick wall.”

“This brick wall has the opportunity to expose your asses,” Grantaire says, deadly quiet. Combeferre’s eyes widen and flick to Enjolras, who seems to grow three feet in anger.

The room shrinks around him.

“That would involve talking to someone in power with a serious tone of voice, which isn’t something I’m convinced you’re capable of.”

“Throw the insults you want, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, heart beating in his throat. “I should have been involved in this.”

“Oh, since when would you even give a shit?” Enjolras growls. He grows in fury, like a sun blazing confined in a small cell.

This is the Enjolras that Grantaire remembers from that first night, the fierce, blazing one - only then, the righteous brilliance wasn’t directed at him.

Combeferre takes a step back.

“Come again?” says Grantaire, taut.

“You’ve given every indication you don’t give a shit how this government works or about the people who run it.”

“I have to care about the government. This isn’t something stupid, like a meeting or the language of a bill or squabbling over dates - this concerns the entirety of how it functions. This is _my life,_ Enjolras, how could you think I don’t care?”

“Well, excuse me,” Enjolras hisses. “For not being able to read your mind and differentiate what you decide matters.”

“Something that concerns me, and my friends—”

“Friends?” Enjolras repeats. “Who cares what will happen to me, who this _directly effects,_ but heaven forbid your ‘friends’—”

“I’ve made friends here that would be ‘directly affected.’ Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan, some of the servants. I have friends!”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. It means I’ve noticed.”

“Then what was with the tone?”

“You keep saying you’re okay with being here, and that’s fine, but clearly you have some kind of issue with me and the marriage. I can’t force you to be faithful to me. As long as you’re discreet, I don’t mind if you find your pleasure elsewhere, but I’d prefer if you let me know and inform me first instead of—” Enjolras’s fist clenches. “I don’t know, whatever you’re planning.”

“Wow. I’ve been insulted before, but I don’t think ever in that roundabout a way.”

“I’m not insulting you—”

“You just don’t want anything to do with me. You’ve said it enough times.”

“I never said that!”

“You implied it!”

“I never implied that!”

“You meant it!”

“I never meant that!”

From the corner of his eye, Grantaire can see Combeferre exit the room.

Grantaire’s never had an argument like this, never been matched with someone who equals him in spite, who can think and throw words at the same speed, whistling back and forth in the air with no forethought, just clean emotion and fury, and how sad, how fucking sad, it’s come to this.

Grantaire’s not even clear what they are arguing about anymore: Grantaire’s exclusion, Enjolras’s resentment; the government switch; their marriage; Grantaire’s attitude; Enjolras’s attitude; it’s all the same twisted ball of yarn of misunderstandings and hurt, and, at this moment, it doesn’t even matter.

Enjolras stares at him, eyes wide and jaw locked. Grantaire can see him take two short breaths, and then put a hand on the table, fist clenched so hard his knuckles are white.

It’s a further second of silence, then, “What is _wrong with you?_ ” Enjolras cries loudly, making Grantaire startle. “Are you doing this on purpose? Is this some sick, perverse way to get inside my head and distract me? Are you trying to make me feel like I am floundering constantly to knock me down a peg? Are you actually a spy from Guilder trying to have me off kilter? Are you actually as sick in the mind as you seem to think you are, or are you really that stupid?”

Grantaire blinks, hurt. “Hey—”

“What have I done, Grantaire,” he asks flatly. “What have I done to give you the impression I don’t care? In plain, short words, tell me. I am sick of pussyfooting around and trying to decode your every expression and the few words you give. Just tell me, straight - what have I done?”

The fury has subsided and something quieter has taken its place, like a bruise instead of a cut.

Grantaire wills himself calm, and forces an honest answer.

“All I’ve heard about you from your birth is how you’re the cold prince of stone. You never had friends to exploit. You never had a lover to release to the press. So much research was done on you, Enjolras, you have no idea.” There is no way he’s supposed to be revealing this. “But nothing was found. You were so elusive, and you obviously worked hard to keep it that way. So, I come here, why would I expect anything to be any different?”

“There’s a difference between foreign intel and reality.”

“There wasn’t. You were kind, and ambitious, and—” Grantaire flaps his hand. “Etcetera. But you didn’t choose me for me. That day, the ceremony? You _chewed me out_ and then picked me, and then gave a speech about how you only picked me for political reasons. And then after - you tell me to stop talking to Combeferre about nothing, that you hate hearing people speak about things that aren’t important. All you care about is politics, and I am _nothing_ in that regard. I am _nothing_ in your eyes. You told me _today_ you don’t want me involved in politics. Why would I give pieces of myself to someone who doesn’t care about them? You haven’t made me feel like you want me.”

Enjolras is quiet, staring, and Grantaire thinks he may have finally caught Enjolras in his web, the truth splintering through like an axe in wood. Or he thinks so, until Enjolras says, in a wonder filled voice, “It’s like you just chose how you were going to view me, and no matter what I did, you just believe your own twisted image in your thoughts instead of the facts in front of your face. Grantaire, I’ve been trying, I have always been _trying._ ”

“Since when?”

Enjolras looks like he wants to shake him.

“Do I have to do it like this?” Enjolras demands. “Do I have to directly spell it out in simple words so a child couldn’t get confused? I _care_ about you.”

“You care about everyone—”

“Not like that!” Enjolras explodes, and Grantaire shrinks. “You deliberately misunderstand me, or you’re just too bullheaded and caught up in your insecurity to understand. _Listen_ to me. _Listen_ to the words I am actually saying, not what you think I’m implying or the connotations you make in your own head. _Listen._ ”

And with trembling hands and a bounding heart, Grantaire does.

“I like you. I like having you here. I like who you are and how you treat people. You’re a _good person._ No, you’re not political, but since when is someone’s worth tied to how good a politician they are? Hell, half the time, that’s an inverse correlation.” He steps forward, grabs both of  Grantaire’s arms, and looks him in the eye. “I like you. I want to get to know you. I want to be your husband, _properly,_ and this includes getting to know who you are. We are each other’s one chance for actual love - and I want to actually try.”

He lets go of Grantaire’s arms and steps back to the table, hands open against the wood grain.

“But you have to give me something. You’re just - you’re this enigma wrapped up in a mystery wrapped up in silence.

“Courfeyrac says you’re friendly and talkative; Combeferre says you often won’t stop talking and have been nothing but open; I overheard a kitchen maid talking about how you told her about your mother. Do you know how _frustrating that is?”_ Enjolras slams his fist on the table; the candlestick rattles. “You’ll talk to a maid you don’t know, who isn’t assigned to you, who you, by convention, wouldn’t know exists - you let her into the details of your personal life but purposefully block me out? You won’t even tell me your favorite color?

“I care about you, and I want this to work, but you have to give me an inch to work with. If you want to make your walls, so be it, but I am done chipping away at them with a butter knife. This is your choice: let me in like you would a friend, maybe one day as a husband, or you stop having any personal contact with me. I am through pretending this will get better by giving you space, or thinking you’ll let me in if I ask the right question or push the right button.

“Tell me what you want from me, Grantaire. Just,” he lets out a breath, low and angry and so tired, and his eyes glisten in the candle light. “Tell me what you want.”

For the first time, it occurs to Grantaire that perhaps there can be miscommunication in silence.

Grantaire’s thoughts are scrambled, emotions clouding his brain, words and syllables and the right thing to say flying like birds in a heavy mist, nearly noticeable but not definable enough to be sure they truly exist. The entirety of his worldview was just shaken, cracked pieces of time from the last month rearranging themselves to make an entirely different picture.

As he works on what to say, Enjolras seems to get the wrong impression by his silence, his shoulders slumping, and letting out a long breath. He’s still staring at the table, head bowed, his hair covering his eyes.

“Make your decision and let me know. I’ll tell you about my plans for the future whenever you want. I’m sorry you’re hurt, and I’m sorry for yelling.” He turns, making to leave.

“Wait,” Grantaire says urgently. He reaches out, hand an inch from Enjolras’s elbow.

Enjolras stops.

“Wait,” Grantaire repeats. “Wait. I’m not ignoring you, I’m just - processing. I want to say the right thing.”

Enjolras steps back. He’s raised his head now, and yes, his eyes are noticeably bright, glistening with unshed tears.

This is fucking difficult.

But maybe Enjolras is right.

Maybe bravery is just a choice.

“I have a tendency,” Grantaire says, and he’s not sure if this is the right place to start or not, but to hell with it. “To expect the worst out of everyone. Probably because most people back home were the worst.”

Enjolras doesn’t laugh, but he isn’t really expecting him to.

“I know you’ve realized this by now, but I was not well liked in Guilder. I was the disappointing, hated son of the meanest son of a bitch on that side of the planet. He was this great war general, and I was just - I was too soft, they always said. I realized, somewhere around seventeen, that it was easier to hate myself too than to constantly come up with excuses and explanations about why they were wrong.

“You know yourself better than anyone, all your good points and your motivations and your soul, and when you hate yourself, it gets extremely difficult to believe anyone who says differently. Because they are either pretending, lying, or don’t know you well enough to hate you too. And when—”

Grantaire swallows.

“When you meet someone who you respect, and admire, and who makes you feel like good is possible - it’s worse. Because if vile people hate you, why would someone good be able to like you?”

“Grantaire—”

“Shut up,” he says. His voice wavers, and he swallows again around the lump in his throat. “Shut up, you wanted to know, and if I stop, I can’t restart.”

Enjolras’s mouth shuts with a click.

“And I hate myself, Enjolras. I’ve hated myself so much more since coming here, because you and Combeferre and Courfeyrac and everyone good here, you’ve all made me feel like I am something, or I could be something. And I feel like I squandered every chance to be a better person than I am. I can’t do anything right. Before, I was just a failure living up to ground level expectations. Now, I _could_ be something, have someone proud of me - and I just, I can’t. I haven’t. I am not good at this stuff, I hate this stuff, I want to be better but _I just can’t do it._ And you’re always disappointed in me, and, just, how can I talk to someone who makes me feel like I could be ten feet tall but I consistently only aspire to ten inches? It makes me hate myself - and if I hate me, why wouldn’t you? Someone so much better?”

He falls silent, his own tears building up in his eyes. He looks up, blinking hard, trying to will them away.

“You shouldn’t want anything to do with me. And every time you try, I can’t tell if you legitimately just won’t give up on me, or if you feel obligated, or what your motivations are when I just keep failing - so my head has to make it make sense, and my brain can’t make you being sincere make sense. So it interprets it in the only way it knows how - you hating me.

“So, when I say it’s me not you, I actually mean it.”

It feels better, somehow, but he’s more worried about how he’ll feel tomorrow. He’s never let someone in and not regretted it the next morning, and it’s rarely ever worked out in his favor.

Grantaire watches as the candle flame flickers.

“Are you done?”

Grantaire nods, not looking at him.

“A lot of that was illogical.”

Grantaire barks out a watery laugh, letting his head fall into his hand. “I spill out all my insecurities to you and your response is that it’s _illogical?_ Since when are fears logical anyway?”

“Am I allowed my rebuttal?” Enjolras asks. He sounds completely calm now, his eyes completely softened.

“I mean, go for it.” Grantaire feels such an utter wave of exhaustion that his legs waver. “And I am going to sit for it.”

He collapses in the chair only a foot away. Enjolras walks over, kneeling by his side, eye to eye. He turns, facing Grantaire.

“Grantaire,” he says. He reaches forward and brushes a lock of hair off his forehead. Grantaire’s eyes prick again, the gesture so soft and gentle. He is still staring at the flame. “Grantaire, I think you need to reevaluate what being good means. It took me a few weeks to realize it, and that was probably several weeks too long, but you’re not made for politics. Just because you were born in this world doesn’t mean you belong in it - no more than a peasant born into prostitution belongs in that one. What that _should_ mean is you can go ahead and pursue other means to fulfill your life - woodworking, animal studies, philosophy, astronomy, swordplay, dancing - by the gods, you could do anything. But we’re stuck in this system where you are forced to be in this world that you don’t belong, and you keep evaluating yourself based on merits of something you shouldn’t even have to participate in. Hopefully, that’ll change with the government swich over.

“But that’s neither here nor there, at the moment. Grantaire, you say you’re worried about my opinion of you? I admire you. You’re kind to the servants; you’re kind to the animals; you’re generous— _look at me, Grantaire,_ ” he snaps, and Grantaire finally raises his eyes from the flame, just to see its reflection in Enjolras’s bright eyes. “You’re a person before your profession, and that’s where you excel, and I’d rather have that in a partner any day. I’m not secretly harboring ill will towards you. I am a bit exasperated I need to sit here and tell you straight to your face in the clearest words I know that I don’t hate you, because I prefer action, but if this is what you need - I want to give you what you need. Can you believe that, even if you can’t understand it?”

“I—”

“I need you to try. I don’t need a lot, but I need that. Try. Just be open with me, honest with me.”

“If we’re being honest,” Grantaire says. “I think I may love you.”

Enjolras’s hand slips off the table.

“Don’t say it back, I, don’t, I, uh, I-I can’t hear that. But. You asked me earlier to choose a side of your ultimatum. I want the side that has you.”

Enjolras stands. Grantaire’s still sitting, his hands literally shaking in his lap, and he just can’t bring himself to lift his head. He feels Enjolras’s hand on his head, and he lets him pull it to his stomach. Enjolras’s arm snakes around his shoulder, and he pulls him in awkwardly, holding him tight in an uncomfortable embrace.

“Green,” Grantaire says into Enjolras’s stomach. His shirt is made out of cotton. “My favorite color is green. Because of trees.”

He can feel Enjolras’s hand tighten in his hair.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  Y'all knew it was coming. 
> 
> (can you tell the 'misunderstands from lack of communication' trope drives me so bonkers I write like 5000 of brute honesty to slap it in its metaphorical face)


	7. Chapter 7

It was a sultry late-summer night. The oppressive heat of the day evaporated somewhere around 2AM, settling in for a pressing warmth that put a slight sheen to Grantaire’s skin, but not enough for any real obvious droplets of sweat to form. The darkness had fallen in that silent way it does, fully and unstoppable. The nearing of autumn meant the rising of the crickets, cicadas, and katydids, chirping away like they knew they only had a few more chances to do so before the first frosts of November swept them away.

Summer nights always felt liminal in a way, to Grantaire. Winter often felt fake - the complete silence of snow, the burying of life and the crisp, cool killing breath of the cold weather seemed to be almost a sidestep from reality. Late summer, on the other hand, was transitional - a moment in between the work of summer and the stalemate of winter, the waiting space that feels almost altogether too real, the moment in a battle to take a breath and just feel, just experience, before moving forward.

Grantaire lets his hand travel through Enjolras’s hair.

He has no idea what the next day will bring, if this breakthrough and understanding will stick - but he’s so more than willing to stay in this held breath of a moment until it is physically pulled from him.

Enjolras seems to be of the same mind, considering he has stayed awake and silent by Grantaire’s side for hours now.

It must be nearing 5AM. The night life has gradually been quieting the past hour, giving away to the first chirps of the morning birds, but the sky hasn’t noticeably begun to lighten, and the full moon is as bright as ever.

Grantaire’s been quietly staring out the window for the past half hour or so, ever since Enjolras let his head fall from Grantaire’s shoulder to his lap. Enjolras has slowly been playing with Grantaire’s fingers, seemingly absentmindedly, just moving the index and middle one back and forth will no real rhythm.

Grantaire’s been in this room for nearing six hours, and a word hasn’t been spoken in over five. He almost wants to break it - not to hear his own voice, but to confirm to himself that this is real, that the moment is happening, and has been happening, with _this_ person, and both of their staying proves that there’s something intangibly there that both equally want to explore and foster - but the air is so full of peace that he’s not sure he can bring himself to do speak.

Enjolras does so for him some time later, once the sun has risen enough that the darkness has given away to a mirage gray.

“We have a small council meeting in about three hours.”

The whispered words somehow don’t break the calm that’s settled firmly over Grantaire’s chest.

“Can we worry about that in two hours and like, fifty six minutes?”

“It’s a seven minute walk,” Enjolras points out.

“Ah,” Grantaire says. Enjolras’s curls are soft. “I’ve always been bad at math.”

Enjolras huffs, and Grantaire can feel it against his legs.

The quiet stretches for several more minutes, until Enjolras, so softly Grantaire’s straining to hear him, says, “I don’t want to leave.”

Grantaire swallows. “No?”

“No. It just - it feels like this may break.”

Grantaire’s never felt like he’s been something worth keeping whole to someone before, and he can feel a lump rise in his throat. “Well,” he says, throaty and fragile, “We don’t have to break just because our location changes.”

Enjolras looks up at him and Grantaire looks down.

“Okay,” Enjolras says after a moment. “I trust you.”

* * *

The castle is silent and no one sees them leave.

Dew has seeped onto the grass. Enjolras and he settle onto it anyway, ignoring the discomfort.

They’re somewhere out back - not quite to the stables, but not in the servant's way for preparing for the day, either. There’s a slight wind to the day, and, as it gently blows against Grantaire, he can’t help but feel like there’s something intimately fragile here that he’s holding in his hands.

The sun has officially begun its ascent, it’s golden rays falling onto Enjolras. Grantaire notes with a smile that the rays disappear in his hair - hair spun of gold. It could make for a fairytale.

Grantaire will never enjoy waking up, but there is something to mornings, and the absence of needing to be.

Enjolras pushes himself to a sitting position, fingers clenching slightly into the dark, damp soil as he leans back on his palms. Grantaire, with only a moment’s hesitation, shuffles nearer to him, pants ripping up little tufts of grass as his knees inch closer to Enjolras’s thigh. He stops, blinks away the sunlight in his eyes, and follows the impulse to raise a hand to carade in Enjolras’s hair, shaking only slightly.

It’s still as soft as it was in the castle, if slightly tangled by the late summer breeze, and he lets his hand clench slightly in it.

Enjolras’s eyes are bright, and he stares, face soft and tensionless, simply watching.

Grantaire leans forward, pulling Enjolras’s forehead to his own, and lets his eyes close, feels rather than sees Enjolras’s left hand come up to softly lay on his shoulder.

Grantaire takes in a hot, trembling breath.

There’s no interruptions, no ill or well timed person or animal or moment to stop it, nothing to take the pressure off of Grantaire, and Enjolras simply waits, and Grantaire can feel the air as it leaves Enjolras, and Lord - this is a type of bravery that Grantaire has never had to encounter before.

He feels a pressure on his hand, and it’s Enjolras, squeezing lightly.  

“It’s got to be you,” Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire nods, just slightly, just enough for Enjolras to feel it against his forehead.

He leans in the extra inch, and Enjolras’s lips are there, the pressure light - and Grantaire’s never felt so intimately _in_ a moment before - he has a habit of dissociating slightly with real life, as if everything was a dream to deal with later, moments that aren’t really moments, because it’s easier to be a disappointment when you don’t allow yourself to fully be there consciously - but here, he’s there on the grass, in the dew, with the warm sunlight and soft breeze, and Enjolras’s hair is soft and his forehead is dry, and his lips just feel like lips. The poetry of lips feeling of peaches or tasting of strawberries just isn’t true - it’s just another human, lips feeling of lips and his shoulder like a shoulder - but it’s _Enjolras’s_ parts that he’s touching, that he’s allowed to touch, and he can feel something in his stomach flip-flop.

He tells it to fuck off and flip-flop somewhere else, but it doesn’t listen, because Enjolras is pressing back harder, reaching a hand upwards to Grantaire’s hair, and he can feel that it’s slightly wet from the dew, and despite neither of their mouths being fully open, Grantaire can feel his lungs screaming for air, but he pushes back harder, heart pounding against his ribcage, and everything is so real, and so just purely decent that he finds himself letting out a slight laugh, just enough for the air of it to puff against Enjolras’s lips.

Enjolras’s chases his lips momentarily, as if he isn’t done, but falls back a few inches. He hooks his arms around Grantaire’s neck and lets their eyes meet.

The moment is too innocent.

Grantaire’s never had a sexual encounter that wasn’t simply a stress relief. Hell, he’s never had a sexual partner that he’s seen in the light. And yet, here they are, sitting in a field and letting a kiss mean something to their relationship.

“We’re acting like children,” Grantaire whispers, and the wind, light as it may be, almost lifts the words away.

“We are children,” Enjolras responds simply.

Grantaire wants to disagree, because he does - they may still not be considered adults until they are fully in their positions, but neither of them have been children since they were forced to make decisions that impact thousands, since they were put in the position where a life could be in their palm, their childhoods were whisked away in the frantic hurry of diplomatic hearings and swordsman training and the pressure to deliver - but, in the same breath, Grantaire understands, or feels, what he means with distinct, odd clarity; how they’ve, almost forcibly, kept their innocence in matters of the heart, have not been allowed to explore the depth of emotions that arise with these kinds of feelings, have not been allowed to feel the flutter of hearts, or the squirming of stomachs, or the nervous sweat, have not been allowed to hold clammy hands, sing romantic songs, smile in embarrassingly full joy - all exploration, if any, has been behind closed doors, and he may be a few months past 25, but he doubts he would have handled this any different at age 8, 10, 12, 15.

Grantaire responds with another kiss.

Enjolras lets him.

 

They leave for the meeting with fifteen minutes to spare.

They approach the castle hand-in-hand. When they reach the steps, Grantaire catches Enjolras’s eye, and he knows they both know that this is the moment when the liminal space breaks. If they could stay in the quiet wake of yesterday forever, Grantaire knows they’d be fine. And yes, that’s significant, but that space was never going to last. The sun rose in the East, and a new day begins, and they are in the same position and life they were in when it rose on their shitty relationship yesterday.

Circumstances didn’t change, but by God, does Grantaire hope _they_ did.

Enjolras holds his eyes for a moment, then nods slightly.

He drops Grantaire’s hand, and Grantaire follows him inside.

* * *

“There you fucking two are.”

“Oh, did you miss us?” Grantaire responds, mostly on reflex. They aren’t even late to the meeting, there’s no reason for the Hand to be visibly twitching like that.

“We tried sending messengers to both your rooms with no response. Where were you?”

“It’s none of your business,” Enjolras intervenes smoothly, taking a seat. “What’s the issue? Why the need for a messenger?”

Grantaire takes his seat next to Enjolras and plants his feet on the table. He doesn’t reach for the wine.

“Remember the Eastern River dam?”

“Of course. Have you reconsidered raising the taxes so we can fix it?”

“No,” a voice says from the doorway. All heads in the room snap towards the doorway. Grantaire can feel himself straighten in his chair, feet falling to the floor.

It’s the King.

“You waited too long to make a decision,” the King says. “Enjolras, I’m told you’re to blame.”

“Of course you were.” Enjolras voice has taken that aloof, steely tone, and Grantaire can’t help but love it when it’s not directed at him. “What do you mean, ‘waited too long’?

“It broke,” the King says. A tense silence falls, and, internally, Grantaire thinks _Ah,_ _shit._ “The damage, thankfully, wasn’t too severe. We were able to fix it within a few hours. It will be paid for with a tax hike on the farmers around the area.”

Grantaire can feel Enjolras’s hackles raise, but the King raises his hand.

“There will be no more discussion on the matter. You’re all here to advise me, and you failed in that regard.” He turns and looks directly at Enjolras. “See to it that you do better next time.”

“What damage did the water do?” Someone asks from down the table.

The King lets his glance shift from Enjolras, and Grantaire can see how Enjolras closes his eyes softly, looks down at his own clenched hands, and Grantaire knows that look well, knows how it accompanies your soul shriveling, that rock weight of feeling like a disappointment.

Something about the morning has him feeling brave. Maybe love, he’s not too afraid to let a voice whisper to him, but the reasoning is not momentarily important.

He rides the wave, listening to the King explain, “Most of the damage was done to the fields. The dam is for irrigation for our farmers. We’re coming near harvest, and, unfortunately, just an hour of flooding destroys potato crops. We’re going to be on a low food supply this year.”

“Hey, Your King Sirness of Majesty, whatever,” Grantaire says, and enjoys how all heads snap to him.

He could almost understand why the King enjoys the power of the position.

“It was my fault that the dam broke in the first place because I derailed that meeting when they were trying to decide. Bully on them for blaming it on Enjolras, that’s nice,” he says, sending a wink to the Hand, whose flabbergasted expression will fuel Grantaire’s self esteem for several weeks. “I think I may have a solution to the whole crop thing.”

“Oh do you?” the King asks. The disbelief is actually kind of insulting.

“Yeah. What’s the principle crop of Guilder?”

The King stares at him, eyebrows raised.

Grantaire tsks. “You should have listened in classes when you were younger. Anyway, it’s wheat. The great thing about wheat is that it’s easily stored, easily transported, and even easier grown. It can also be made into all these lovely things - bread, porridge, gravy, biscuits, a mean beer - oh, the list goes on and on of all these delectable treats. Sort of like potatoes in that regard, if you get my drift.”

Grantaire pointedly ignores Enjolras, who he knows is staring at him.

“Or, if you don’t get my drift, which is fine, we’re all slow in some regards, let me put it this way - you have a letter from Guilder saying that they want to make peace and that they will not be attending the wedding of their peaceweaver. Now, if their peaceweaver just so _happens_ to insist that they show their honest commitment to peace through a wedding present of crops, just enough to, say, cover a loss of potatoes from, say, I don’t know, a flood, then Guilder would probably be diplomatically forced to agree and send over some wheat, don’t you think, to save face? If they refuse, it looks like they weren’t serious about their statement of wanting our two countries to come to an agreement. They either have to disagree and refuse to send a wedding gift, which, by golly, would be awfully rude and let us ignore that darn letter, or they just agree, and wow, look at those stores of wheat that we now have littering our front door step.”

If Grantaire wasn’t insulted before, the silence that descends definitely did the job.

“Gueulemer,” the King finally says, turning to the man who is always taking notes at the meetings. Grantaire really has to start learning people’s names. “Draft the letter. Grantaire, sign it. That’s not a request.”

He leaves, bringing silence in his wake, and Grantaire wishes he had a goblet of wine, just so he could sip it smugly.   

 

The council filters out not an hour later. Grantaire actually reads the document that Gueulemer placed in front of him at the end while people are filtering out - he used to just sign without looking in hopes to leave faster. Here, though, he’s slightly worried he may sign away his marriage if he’s not careful, so he takes time going over the scripted words on the page.

They’ve misspelled Guilder’s Hand of the King’s name, but Grantaire pointedly ignores it. He doesn’t want hostilities, but he’s not above a bit of pettiness.

He signs with a flourish, slightly bigger than normal, and hands the quill back to Gueulemer, who smiles, pained, at him, before exiting.

Grantaire turns to go and startles slightly at seeing Enjolras waiting in the doorway.

“Oh, I thought you left.”

“Not yet.”

Grantaire nods. They leave, shoulder to shoulder, and begin walking down the hallway that will lead to Grantaire’s quarters.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says.

“For?”

“Lying, actually.” Enjolras laughs without mirth. “Sticking up for me when my dad blamed me for the dam breaking. Even though it was probably my fault, it was - I don’t know, sort of nice to have him proven wrong. Even if for a moment, and even if it wasn't true.”

“Don’t mention it,” Grantaire says, flapping his hand in the air, accidentally hitting Enjolras on the arm. Nice to see that finding requited love doesn’t make him any smoother. “Didn’t cost me anything to do. And I'm planning on it being the last time I ever participate in one of those things.”

“Your solution was smart,” Enjolras says, hands going in his pockets. “But…” He trails off.

“But?” Grantaire prompts.

Enjolras lets out a breath. “But,” he continues. “You mentioned that if they don’t agree then the letter they sent no longer stands. That letter is the only thing that’s keeping them from not forcing us not to get married.”

Grantaire spends a second decoding the double negatives. “You mean you think they could force us not to get married if not for the diplomatic pressure?”

“They were hunting for alternative solutions before. Guilder is the only reason they stopped.”

Grantaire’s touched that Enjolras is so displeased with the thought that they may be pressured to break up once again. More touched that he’s willing to admit, and he curls his hands into fists in his pockets.

“Enjolras,” he says, after a moment of controlling his tone. “They won’t get the letter for another week. Quickest, it’ll be another two weeks for a response, positive or negative.”

“So?”

“So?” Grantaire quirks an eyebrow at him. “We’ll be married before then.”

Enjolras stops in his tracks, eyes widening, and, after all this, it figures that a simple matter of time would be what surprises Enjolras into inaction.

“I thought it was further out. It—it came up so quickly.”

Grantaire laughs, because he just can’t fucking help himself. “The quickest and shortest few months of your life, hm?”

“No kidding,” Enjolras responds, and it seems he forgot to put the humor in his tone.

Grantaire lets it slide.

* * *

Joly’s waiting inside the door, which Grantaire abso-fucking-lutely should have expected, but didn’t, and he finds him shouting in surprise when a small barrel of flesh jumps at him the moment he closes the door to his bedroom.

“You’re such a bastard,” Joly says, reaching an arm around Grantaire’s neck so he can hold him in a headlock. Grantaire could easily just stand straight up, and he knows Joly would come with him and dangle, but Joly probably has a point with the bastard comment, he usually does, so he lets himself be held down.

“What did I do this time?”

“I told you to go _apologize,_ not _disappear._ ”

“I _did_ go apologize.”

“And it took _eleven hours?_ ”

“The apology took about a half hour. The other ten and half were devoted to other stuff.”

The hold on his head abruptly loosens.

Grantaire straightens, wincing as his neck cracks.

Joly’s expression almost makes Grantaire miss the headlock.

“Other stuff? What does _other stuff_ include?” His smile goes sharp. “Did you find out if he was good at sex?”

“Fuck’s sake, Joly,” Grantaire grumbles, going to sit on the bed. Joly maybe pissed at him, but he still brought breakfast to the room. Granted, it’s only biscuits, apricot jam, an orange, and water, but Grantaire’s willing to forgive him because it’s an orange more than usual.

He’ll never admit it on pain of torture and lost limbs, but, in ways, he misses Feuilly.

He picks up the orange and begins peeling it, ignoring Joly’s stare into his head and tapping foot.

“ _Well?_ ” Joly demands, as fifteen seconds is apparently his threshold of patience.

“Well,” Grantaire says. There’s bits of orange peel under his nails. “We came to an understanding.”

“Understanding,” Joly repeats. “What does that mean?”

Grantaire doesn’t want to explain, funnily enough. One part of it is that the night seems intimately _theirs_ in a way that he doesn’t want to share - like even telling of what happen detracts from the meaning of all those private quiet moments shared between the two of them.

The more real part is that he’s afraid that explaining it will make him realize it was less than what it seemed.

He so badly doesn’t want to be helpless again.

“I don’t know,” he ends up muttering. “I think - I think he likes me. For me, you know. And you know I like him. For him. And I think - I think we can make this work. For real.”

He’s expecting some kind of gentle ridicule, Joly’s normal modus operandi. Instead, he feels the bed dip, and a soft weight lean up against his side. Naturally, without a thought, he brings up an arm and slips it around Joly’s shoulders.

“Of course you can,” Joly says, easily. “What made you realize?”

“Just - I guess I needed it shouted in my face.”

“Guess that makes sense,” Joly responds mulishly. He picks up one of the orange slices Grantaire had set aside and pops it in his mouth. “You always had the opposite shouted in your face by your dad. Guess they cancel out.”

“My dad tried,” Grantaire says, not even knowing why, and he isn’t surprised to hear Joly’s undignified snort. “I mean, it’s hard to exactly blame him for hating me. I killed his wife.”

“You did nothing of the sort,” Joly says, with a vehemence that he usually reserves for people who torture servants for fun. It has Grantaire looking over, surprised. “R, she died in childbirth. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not,” Grantaire concedes. “But it was my doing. I can see where the anger came from. With that in mind, his shitty parenting is kind of - I don’t know, understandable.”

“Where the fuck is this coming from?” Joly asks, and he sounds serious. Grantaire shrugs and eats an orange slice.

“I honestly, truly don’t know. I saw Enjolras’s dad today, and it kind of, unconsciously, I guess, had me thinking. Parents are so often shit. And don’t get me wrong, my dad was shit. But at least, in his mind, he had justification for it. Enjolras did literally _nothing_ and his father hates him. I committed the greatest sin I could have against my father, my fault or not.”

“You cannot forgive him.”

Joly tugs on his sleeve, and Grantaire looks over. Joly’s eyes are dark, serious, and worried.

In all his heartache over Enjolras, he almost forgot that there are more than one kinds of love, and his friendship with Joly has this place in his heart, soft and large and buried and untouchable, so ingrained that sometimes he forgets it’s there, except in moments like this, when Joly’s sitting on his bed and his legs are too short to touch the ground and he’s in yesterday’s breeches and he forgot to do Grantaire’s laundy and his hair is disheveled and, good gods, Grantaire feels a wave of affection so strong that he’s smiling against his will, pulling Joly closer to his side.

“It’s my forgiveness,” he says. “And I’ll give it to who I damn well please.”

Joly must notice his change in tone, because all he gets is a poke in his side.

“You can forgive if you want. I’ll hold the grudge for you, for longer than you want. I don’t mind.”

Grantaire’s tempted to press a kiss to his head, and he’s never been one good with temptation, so he does just that.

Joly doesn’t say a word.

* * *

“Grantaire!” Fantine greets with a kind, wide smile. Her voice is exactly how he remembered, that southern, slow timbre, sweet as a mother with a newborn. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

“And you,” he responds, bowing, and grabbing her hand to kiss. She lets him with an indulgent smile.

“I was so glad he picked you, I must say. I’ve never done a wedding dress for a man before.”

“Will I be wearing a dress, then?” Grantaire asks, straightening from his bow. “I haven’t before, but I suppose I’m not totally opposed.”

Fantine raises one perfectly sculpted brow, and he can hear Jehan cough out a laugh from the corner. Grantaire winks at him.

“I suppose I still have time to remake your outfit if you truly want, but I went to all this trouble.” With a hand in the air, she summons a servant, who is carrying a truly stark snow white set of men’s dresswear.

It’s finely made and lovely, interlaced with gold embroidery and slightly feminine lace shoulders, and just the sight of it has Grantaire smiling softly.

“I normally ask what attributes the bride, or groom, I suppose, would like to highlight - but after that non-answer last time, I just went with my own eyes told me. They’re probably more honest than yours, anyway, when it comes to finding the good in you.”

He fondles the collar of the shirt. “And what good did your eyes find, Ms. Fantine?”

“Everything,” she says simply. He looks up from the shirt, to find her eyes, such kind eyes, soft and gentle on him. The word hangs in the air for a moment, stuck in between them, and part of Grantaire wants to reach out and cling to them with white knuckles.

“Oh,” he says.

“The white will bring out the darkness of your hair nicely,” she says, moving past the moment. “The gold will bring out those golden specks in your eyes.” Grantaire always thought his eyes were just brown. “It should all be fitted slim, unless you’ve drastically changed weights since your measurements at the ball. That will help emphasize the broadness of your shoulders and thickness of your calves. The lace is my own touch - a reminder that you’re the married, not the marrier, but it’s minimal enough that the King probably will not complain.”

“Spent a lot of time looking at my figure?” he asks, just for something to say.

“There’s a lot to look at,” she says smoothly, and Grantaire wonders if he will ever be able to give a compliment that good, that fast, in his life. He supposes he has years to practice.

“How about you try it on?”

 

“Why’re you here, anyway?” Grantaire says, his hands dropping helpless to his side to let Jehan undo his fancy and overly complicated neckpiece. It’s the last piece Fantine wanted him to try. Upon getting it on him, she immediately declared it a mistake, and then whisked off to a different room for revisions, leaving him helpless dressed in his day clothes with a complicated tie of sorts around his neck with no directions on how to get it off without damage.

Jehan pulls it smoothly from his neck and hands it to a servant, who exits the room.

“My fitting was directly before yours. I wanted to see her design, so she let me stay.”

“She did a wonderful job.”

“She always does.” Jehan nods.

They’re alone in the room now, and Grantaire has no engagements for the night, so he finds himself asking, “Do you want to go out for drinks?”

Jehan’s brows rise. “Do you really think we should sneak off this close to your wedding? What if something happens?”

“Not sneak,” Grantaire denies. “Go. I’ll bring my manservant and guard. And even a friend or two, maybe. It just might be nice to go do something.”

“A pub is rather far,” Jehan says, and Grantaire can feel his spirits drop. “But - I have another idea. Bring your manservant and that other friend of yours you were telling me about.”

“Bossuet,” Grantaire supplies.

“Yeah, him. I’d like to meet your friends. Come around to my room as soon as you can.”

* * *

He collects Joly with minimal fuss. Bossuet takes slightly longer, as Grantaire has to pull him away from feeding the horses. Courfeyrac gives a full belly laugh when Bossuet accidentally bumps a stall door’s latch, letting the King’s stallion poke its nose out just enough to bite Grantaire on the shoulder.

Grantaire happily gives an inappropriate gesture to him before dragging Bossuet away on executive, Kingly privilege, to which Courfeyrac throws a bit of grain at his hair but ultimately lets go with no comment.

“So, this Jehan,” Bossuet says, puffing out his chest slightly. “What is he like? Should I intimidate him?”

Grantaire gallantly doesn’t comment on the fact that Bossuet doesn’t have his sword, is in hay-covered servants clothing, and has a face that puts children at ease.

“Absolutely not. He’s - quiet, I suppose. But he’s great.”

“Well,” Bossuet says, breaking out in a grin. “You do have excellent taste in friends.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and pushes open the heavy door to Jehan’s private room.

“Grantaire,” he greets. Jehan’s in his nightgown already, his hair up and plaited, and Grantaire marvels at his quiet confidence in letting people he doesn’t even know see him so disheveled. Quiet he may be, a coward he is not. “And friends.”

“I’m told we’re going to have a pub-like evening?” Bossuet says, almost a question.

“Follow me,” Jehan responds mysteriously, beckoning them towards his bookshelf. They follow. Jehan glances at the door to make sure it’s shut, and then pulls them over to the side of the bookshelf. With a smile, enigmatic smile, he grabs the side of it, and pulls it aside.

“Oh my god,” Joly marvels. “Is this a secret passageway? Is this _a secret passageway?_ ”

 

It is, in fact, a secret passageway.

Joly’s excited timbre bounces off the cement walls loudly, and his obvious glee is the only reason Grantaire isn’t begging him to shut up. Bossuet, as usual, is indifferent to Joly’s tirade, and Jehan accepts it with as much grace as he usually does. Which, is to say, more than Grantaire’s shown at any moment in his given life.

The passage leads down to a small room in the kitchens. Apparently, when the castle was built, Jehan’s room was meant for the head chef - the passageway would lead to the kitchen as a shortcut in case of emergencies.

Grantaire wonders slightly why they had to take the dimly light, cement cavern down into the bowels of the castle when they easily could have just walked the normal way down actual hallways, but Joly’s elation has him keeping his mouth firmly shut.

Also, he thinks Jehan might get off slightly on seeming enigmatic and recondite.

Whatever, there are worse flaws. Many that Grantaire has.

“Kudos on the arcane pathway,” Grantaire says, taking a seat on the table. Joly sits next to him. Bossuet sits across the way where Jehan joins him after passing each of them a mug of rum.

“Thank you,” Jehan responds, pulling his legs up under him.

“So, dude,” Joly says, before spending several seconds to chug a good portion of his rum. “What are your interests?”

“This, that,” Jehan evades. “I’m a maester - I have varied interests.”

“But your favorite?” he asks, drinking again.

“Poetry,” Jehan answers, to Grantaire’s surprise. “Or the flute, perhaps.”

“Is flute poetry your favorite then?” Joly asks. He’s clearly in a good mood tonight, already halfway through his mug of alcohol. Silently, Grantaire pours a good ⅓ of his own cup into Joly’s, who doesn’t notice.

“What do you mean by that?” Grantaire asks. “Flute as in the verb or flute as in the noun?”

“Why do you always have to be a dick?” Joly grumbles, though Jehan just looks thoughtful.

“Now that you mention it, I’m not sure I know of any flute, as in the noun,” Jehan clarifies, “poetry. I would love to read some. So much little is written about instruments - they are supposed to make their own poetry.”

“How about this?” Grantaire can tell Joly’s puffing up to say his own poetry, and he can feel the secondhand embarrassment already descending. “The flute yearns/for your fingers/much like my body does.”

Grantaire snorts, unable to help himself, and he can feel Joly’s offended glare on the side of his face. It just makes a chuckle rise from deeper within. He takes a drink to try to distract from Joly, but ends up snorting half of it anyway.

“That was lovely, Joly,” Bossuet compliments, because he’s a sap who enjoys Joly beaming at him.

Joly does not disappoint, beaming with such a joyful smile that even Jehan looks amused.

“Thank you, darling,” Joly says, before taking another swig. “So, Jehan, tell me more about yourself.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell.”

Joly squints. “You’re one of those shy, quiet types, aren’t you? Don’t talk a lot?”

Jehan nods slightly in acquiesce.

“Why is that? Is there something wrong with talking?”

“Not at all,” Jehan answer softly, somehow probably aware that’s a slightly touchy area for Joly, probably because he knows Joly loves Grantaire and Grantaire has this very obvious propensity to never shut the fuck up. “I simply find I don’t often have much to contribute, socially. And politically - there are advantages to making yourself unseen.”

“That’s probably true,” Joly says, reaching around Grantaire to grab at a plate of bread left there by the kitchen staff before they were dismissed. “Do you think you could kill someone without being caught?”

“Joly,” Bossuet admonishes. It’s simply his moral compass that made him speak - Bossuet knows as well as Grantaire that Joly steps around worms when they arise on the path after a rainstorm.

“Just asking.”

“Oh, absolutely.” The quiet confidence in Jehan’s voice has Joly pausing from chewing. “There are more than a dozen ways to kill someone with just water.”

“Oh my God, can you teach us?” Bossuet asks, apparently forgetting his miraculous ability to almost die without even knowing how he’s doing it.

“Not you,” Joly and Grantaire respond in tandem.

* * *

They’ve been down there for several hours, Grantaire knows, given the empty pitchers of alcohol sitting on the counter behind them. It’s late evening, and Joly is mostly passed out on Bossuet’s shoulder. Jehan’s quietly telling him the best ways to patch a surface wound, and Grantaire’s feeling full in all the most pleasant, internal ways possible.

The door to the chamber opens, and there’s Enjolras, in his short glory, looking oddly surprised to find the four of them.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry - I just didn’t have a big dinner and was looking for the leftover food they leave here.”

Grantaire waves his hand at the table behind Jehan, laden with foods of different sorts.

“I’ll head out,” Bossuet says, looking between Enjolras and Grantaire. Grantaire wants to say it’s unnecessary, but Joly clearly needs looking after and a bed, and there’s no one better than Bossuet for the job, so he just nods.

As Enjolras quietly builds a plate of food, Bossuet collects Joly and leaves. Jehan is right behind with a hand squeezing Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Are you all friends, then?” Enjolras asks, placing an piece of bread with jam on his plate.

“I suppose,” Grantaire answers, and it’s nice to realize he’s not even lying.

“That’s good to hear.”

Enjolras climbs up on the table Jehan and Bossuet occupied.

It strikes Grantaire that it’s not even been a full day since what he’s referring to in his head as That Night.

It feels like a lifetime.

There’s something between them, like an invisible cord of _something -_ not tension, but something simply present; they are aware of the each other in a way Grantaire just isn’t with anyone else in the world, like a cord wrapped around both of them binding them together, invisible but firm, and Grantaire has no idea how to react to it.

“How was your day?” he ends up asking.

“As days go, unextraordinary,” Enjolras answers, biting into his bread. He grabs something off his plate and flips it to Grantaire, who catches it despite his surprise.

It’s a chocolate, the caramel filled ones that he likes so much, and he didn’t even realize those were down here.

“Oh my gods, you’re ruining other men for me,” Grantaire marvels, popping it into his mouth.

“Good,” Enjolras replies.

Grantaire expected more awkwardness the next time they spent significant portions alone. He usually felt embarrassed and tired after massive emotional upheavals, and it’s easy to make yourself feel after the fact that it was a mistake to reveal the hidden, rotten underbelly of your personality and insecurities to another person.

Especially when you want the other person to think well of you.

But this - this isn’t that, somehow.

Grantaire just feels calm.

He knows if he lets himself think about it, he’ll just over think about it until the calmness is overtaken by doubt and paranoia, so, for once, he lets himself just be, and chews his chocolate and sips his rum.

“Are you coming tomorrow to the open forum?” Enjolras asks. His legs are swinging back and forth in the air. He’s so short that they are several feet above the ground, and he looks childish like this, like he could be any little boy sneaking some food after dinner.

“Am I supposed to?”

Grantaire vaguely knows what it is. Apparently, after finding a man the winter before who had to walk a mile to get firewood for his cabin in the dead of winter, Enjolras had begun to have meetings every few months where the commoners could come to the court and speak with the royalty about problems that ailed them.

It wasn’t a new concept, but not widely practiced by any means. For Guilder, the idea was laughable; here, it almost seemed more so. Not that Enjolras wouldn’t want to - but Florin was a large country, several thousand people larger than Guilder, and they had suffered far more climate and natural concerns. It just seemed like it was bound to fail, on a simple person to person ratio. He couldn’t imagine other members of the royalty participating.

“No one else usually participates,” Enjolras answers, confirming that suspicion. “I once got my dad to go, but he gave up after someone hit him with a piece of cow dung.”

Grantaire settles his mug back on his knee. “What happened now?”

Enjolras chuckled at his expression.

“It’s not quite as terrible as it sounds. He was _trying_ to show him that the new method of making cow feed was causing some issue with cow’s digestion, which of course affected their dung. Someone tripped him, on accident, though, and there his basket went.”

“Unfortunate,” Grantaire says in amazement.

“Understatement,” Enjolras laugh. He quickly sobers. “The man was thrown from the court, and my father left and never came again.”

“And the man?” Grantaire asks. It’ll bother him until he knows.

Enjolras looks at him, a small smile forming. “How would I know?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Like I would ever believe that you let him be thrown out without following up.”

“Guilty,” Enjolras acknowledges. A kitchen maid appears from the outer room and places a second platter of pastries between them, and they both echo a thank you. She waves a hand and walks back to the sink. “I bought him a second cow and had it sent with a note asking him to please ignore my father’s behavior. I had Jehan send a letter to the University, and asked their agriculture scholars to look into it. We still don’t know much, but apparently high levels of corn isn’t good for their diets. I drafted a bill about it, actually. I think it was brought up at your first meeting.”

Grantaire vaguely remembers that, actually.

“You’re not obligated to join,” Enjolras says, redirecting them back to the actual topic at hand. “But you may if you’d like.”

“What do you want me to do?” Grantaire says, taking a bite of his pastry. He doesn’t want to embarrass Enjolras with his utter lack of public personality and lack of knowledge about Florin, but he also doesn’t want to abandon him with no one there.

“I want you to do what you want to do.”

“I want to do what you want me to do.”

“I’m not going to ask you for another thing, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and that, that sounds like an answer.

“I’ll come,” Grantaire decides. He watches as Enjolras ducks his head, hiding a smile, and Grantaire inwardly lets out a breath.

* * *

“Combeferre,” Grantaire says, knocking on the outer door. Combeferre lifts his head, his glasses falling slightly down his nose with the movement.

“Grantaire,” he greets. “Please, come in. I’m just finalizing some of the guest seating for your wedding.”

“Ah yes,” Grantaire says, sliding into the room and shutting the door behind him. All the doors here were so fucking heavy - he really needed to get back in shape since quitting being a knight. “I forgot that people actually have to plan this wedding thing. No one ever talks to me about it.”

“That’s probably because they assume you don’t care.”

“Or they don’t care about my opinion.”

Combeferre shrugs, which Grantaire takes as an agreement.

The table is overflowing with papers, but, knowing Combeferre, there is most likely an order to the chaos. The largest piece of paper, the one Combeferre was pouring over, seems to be a massive list of names.

“That’s the guest list,” Combeferre clarifies. “A check means they are coming. I am drafting thank-you-for-coming letters ahead of time. I’m going alphabetically,” he gestures to the massive pile of paper to the left of the sheet. “And it is a nightmare. This is why people hire scribes.”

“Indeed,” Grantaire murmurs, looking over the list. He knows very few of the people personally, except one or two ambassadors from his time in Guilder.

“Why is Yen noted as not coming?” Grantaire asks. “I think I remember her at the choosing ceremony.”

“Oh yes,” Combeferre nods. He moves to begin shuffling the papers into a neater stack. “Enjolras stepped on her feet three times and then she kicked him in the shin, and he came back to me and said he almost cried.”

Grantaire did not know that, but he's slightly overjoyed he does now. “Is that why they aren’t coming?”

“No,” Combeferre says easily.

“Then why?”

“Enjolras was worried his father or the hand would write to her and tell Enjolras accepted her proposition without his agreement so they could buy a little more time to figure out how to get you out of the picture.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Because he was right, and the Hand did.”

“How do you know?”

“The Queen had shifted duties by that time, you’ll remember, or else she would have just held the letter. But, at that point, it was the man on the small council. He wasn’t familiar with the position, which Enjolras was counting on. Enjolras went in one night, changed the address of Yen to an ambassador’s daughter he’s friends with there. When she sees it, she’ll understand and hold the letter.”

“Brilliant.”

“He has his moments.”

It goes quiet for a moment as Grantaire skims over the list.

He sees that no one from Guilder is marked as coming, and is surprised by how it is still a pang. A day doesn't solve everything, it seems.

"Cosette and Marius aren't marked."

"That's because they are already here. They arrived last night."

Grantaire lifts his head, puzzled. "That's awfully early, isn't it?"

"Yes." He doesn't elaborate, and Grantaire can tell he's discomforted by it. 

“So, Grantaire,” Combeferre says, pushing his glasses up. “What can I do for you? I thought you’d be headed to the open forum. Enjolras said you were attending.”

“That’s why I am here, actually.” Combeferre’s eyebrows lift, and he gestures for him to go on. “I’ve never done one of these, and I don’t want to fuck it up. Is there anything I should or should not do?”

Combeferre, to Grantaire’s surprise, laughs. “Grantaire, this is just talking to the public and listening to their complaints. You’ll be great at that.”

“Great?” Grantaire repeats dumbly.

“I know you’re good at talking with commoners.” Grantaire remembers, suddenly, that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are intimate. “The people just want to be heard. So just listen. I know you can. And you have this…” he pauses, trying to find proper phrasing. “Sharp tongue about you that I think they will appreciate.”

“Sharp tongue? Appreciate?” Grantaire repeats, feeling like a mimicking fool.

“You’re sarcastic,” Combeferre clarifies. “It makes you more human, and will make you connect with them better. They don’t want to be condescended to. They just want to feel like they’re human, and you’re human, and that what they say matters to you. It’s not hard.”

“But what if I’m bad at it?”

“Do you expect yourself to be worse than the King?” Combeferre counters, crossing his arms. “Or worse than the other dozen council members who simply don’t show?”

Grantaire blinks.

“You need to work on your perspective.” Combeferre says dismissively, going back to sorting through the papers.

“I’m going to go,” Grantaire says. “Also, call Feuilly up from where they have him training. He’d love doing this type of administrative copying work, especially for someone as high up as you are.”

Combeferre smiles at him. “Thank you.”

“You know,” Grantaire says, before he turns to leave. “You may lack the gift of small talk, but you do not lack the gift of speech.”

It’s a thanks, and, by his blush, Combeferre knows it.

* * *

The forum is already started by the time Grantaire finds his way to the throne room. The line of commoners is out the door, for the gods know how long, and Grantaire feels slightly queasy as he takes his seat, waving off the servant who tries to announce him to the crowd.

He wants to talk to Enjolras, if only for reassurance, but a man wearing only a thin shirt and overalls walks straight up to him.

“Sire,” the man says, bowing. Grantaire awkwardly salutes back. “I am here about the fence near the village of Moorwood. Are you familiar with it?”

“In name only,” Grantaire answers, because that’s true for almost all of Florin. Maybe he and Enjolras can visit other parts, someday.

“It’s the sheep fence, and it’s been in a state of disrepair for nearing a year. The fence was built by the King three years ago as a gift, but, as it is technically his fence, we are not allowed to mend it.” Grantaire’s starting to feel like he should have brought a pen and paper. “The problem is the material it was made out of. Do you know what makes a good fence?”

“Bad neighbors?” Grantaire hedges.

The man blinks, and Grantaire can feel himself shrivel.

* * *

“That was fucking infuriating,” Grantaire fumes.

Enjolras sends him a surprised look. “And here I thought you were on edge because of all the people.”

“They’re such shitheads,” Grantaire growls. He’s not watching where he’s going, and he almost runs into a candlestick, but Enjolras pulls him to the side just in time, with a little smile. Grantaire ignores him. “All you’re trying to do is make their lives better, and what do they do? Complain that it’s your fault their chickens got pneumonia. What the fuck—”

“To be fair,” Enjolras interrupts mildly. “Our country doesn’t have any professional educational facilities for animal doctors, so there are very few to be found, and are very expensive. If the government would institute one, his chickens may not have died.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “You know it’s bullshit. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Perhaps.” Enjolras shrugs. “But I’d rather they come complain to me about trivial things than sit in their homes, silenced by our lack of communication. We give them a platform, and this is how we find out what’s important to the people.”

“I’m not saying the forum is a bad idea,” Grantaire says, because it’s not, though he’s fucking exhausted and he didn’t even say anything the entire time beyond empty platitudes. He doesn’t even have any political power, not yet. “I just don’t know how you can sit there and be charming and kind to every person, when they come to you with such inane complaints.”

“They’re not inane to them. Chickens are some people’s livelihood; if they all died of the cold, then it is quite possible the man wouldn’t have money to feed his family.”

Enjolras hasn’t looked away from him since they left the throne room; his glance is cool, calculating, but not unkind, and suddenly, it makes Grantaire slightly uneasy.

“Did I do anything wrong during the forum?” he asks, because it’s quite possible he muttered something slightly too loud, or gave the wrong look, or said something just on the wrong of edge of inappropriate.

Enjolras shakes his head. “Not at all. In the future, would you feel more comfortable if we did it together rather than apart? It would take longer, but not significantly, and I think it’d help having two brains and a unified appearance.”

“Double the time,” Grantaire corrects. “Because we’d inevitably get in an argument.”

Enjolras laughs, loud, his real one, and Grantaire still can’t believe that’s his laugh – it’s like some forest animal was hit by a bow.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says eventually. They’re just strolling around the castle, now. “I think there’s something to doing it separately, though. It’s faster and shows we trust one another.”

“True,” Enjolras admits. “But this will never be fast unless we have more members do it, and I wonder if it’s problematic to have us separated before we’re even seen as being unified. There’s never been two Kings before, we should show them there isn’t animosity or a grab for power by one of us.”

“You will be a King,” Grantaire corrects. “I will not. As it should be.”

Enjolras goes to respond, but he’s interrupted by a small, feminine voice behind them.

“Grantaire, sir?”

They turn. There’s a woman standing behind them, obviously a kitchen maid from uniform, hands clasped in front of her and head bowed just enough he can’t catch her eyes.

She’s familiar - and then it clicks. “Floreal,” he says. Her head snaps up. “We played dominoes that one time.”

“You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered. What can I do you for?”

“I’d like to speak with you for a moment.” She pauses. “In private,” she adds.

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing forward with his arm.

He smiles a goodbye to Enjolras, who gives him a one-handed wave before heading off with a smile.

Gods, what a day can do.

She leads him down an unfamiliar corridor and turns into a room without a door. By appearance, he’d guess it was a food cellar. She looks around, and apparently satisfied no one is there, begins.

“Sire, I was the maid appointed to fix your meals for lunch and supper.”

“Great job thus far,” he says.

She smiles briefly, but it quickly falls. “Thank you, sire. Do you remember yesterday, the vegetable soup?”

Grantaire doesn’t pride himself on knowing what is going on, but this out of the norm of baffled. “Yes.”

“As I was preparing to take you your soup, I saw something odd. There was something in the soup that looked like potato, but there wasn’t supposed to be potato in this particular one. I scooped it out. I thought it was a parsnip at first, but, upon closer look, it was a hemlock.”

“How did you catch that?” Grantaire asks, amazed.

“I’m a kitchen maid by birth - I am the one who picks the vegetables for cooking. If I didn’t know the difference, most of this castle would be dead.”

“Makes sense,” Grantaire admits. “Well, is there anyway I can thank you? Repay you?”

She shakes her head with vigor. “I didn’t tell you so you could repay me. Grantaire, sire, I had prepared that soup myself. No hemlock was in it. I am sure of it. When I ladled your soup, it was not in it.”

Dread spools in Grantaire’s gut. “Then how—?”

“People are in and out of the kitchen,” she says in a lowered voice. “I have no way of knowing who. But it must have been deliberate.”

“Floreal,” Grantaire says. “Would you please come with me?”

* * *

“Are you _sure_?” Combeferre says for the third time.

“Positive,” Floreal affirms, infinitely patient.

The three of them are standing in the middle of Combeferre’s study, Grantaire rubbing his temples, Floreal still and serious, and Combeferre is beginning to pace.

“Grantaire, have you made any enemies here, anyone who you think might do this?”

Grantaire barks out a surprised laugh. “It’d probably be faster to weed out how _wouldn’t_ want to kill me.”

“Floreal,” Combeferre says, turning to her. “Could this have been one of the kitchen staff?”

“No,” she says, firm. “I am in charge of making the soup and plating Grantaire’s meals - no one would touch his meal but me.”

“But would any of the kitchen staff have done it to Grantaire purposefully?”

“To Grantaire?” she asks scornfully, and Grantaire can’t help his eyebrows raising at the incredulity in her voice. “Never.”

“How can you know?” Grantaire says, cutting off whatever Combeferre had been preparing to say. “I’m down there all the time, talking with people and eating your food and playing stupid games. Maybe someone is sick of me, or doesn’t want me there.”

There’s a beat of quiet. Floreal holds his gaze. “Sire,” she says, then stops a moment. When she begins again, her voice is serious. “Not everyone sees the help. _No one_ would hurt you.”

Grantaire goes to reply, but Combeferre waves him off.

“Do you remember anyone outside of staff in the kitchen?”

Floreal shakes her head. “We’re all focused on our own duties - I wouldn’t notice if the King himself walked in until everyone was stopped to bow.”

“Ask around,” Combeferre commands, and Floreal nods. “Meanwhile, I’d like you to make Grantaire’s meals individually and not let them out of your sight. Be careful.”

“Absolutely.”

“I trust you,” Grantaire adds, because he feels it needs to be said. She smiles at him. He turns to Combeferre. “If you want names, I’d put my money on the Hand. But - what’s the plan, here? Even if we can prove it was him, what do we do? The King would never fire him.”

“Well,” Combeferre, and his tone drastically shifted, and it makes Grantaire pause. “I don’t think that’s quite true. If we could prove the Hand was a threat to Enjolras, the Hand would be gone.”

Grantaire frowns. “Really?”

“The King loves Enjolras. I mean, he’s a dick, and they do nothing but fight, but he loves Enjolras, as much as any parent.”

“You think, given you can prove it was the Hand, that he’d choose Enjolras over him?”

“Absolutely,” Combeferre says, with no hesitation or thought.

“You think that he’d choose me over the Hand?”

A pause.

Combeferre looks down, thoughtful. He turns.

“Floreal,” Combeferre begins. “Will you swear under oath and to the King’s face that the hemlock was in both Enjolras’s and Grantaire’s soup?”

“Yes,” she answers with no hesitation.

“That’s a lie,” Grantaire objects.

“I, frankly, don’t care,” Combeferre responds.

“Combeferre,” Grantaire starts to object.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre interrupts, serious and commanding. Grantaire’s mouth snaps shut. “I am, plainly, not going to let anything happen to you. No matter the cost.”

What has he done to deserve that kind of loyalty, Grantaire wonders.

“This conversation does not leave this room. Floreal, you are dismissed.”

She curtseys, and with a last look in Grantaire’s direction, exits.

The castle is silent at night. Outside, the crickets, cicadas, and katydids have started their nightly symphony.

Combeferre lifts a hand to his forehead, and massages his temples. “Well,” he says, at long last. “Shit.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (fun?) tidbit: the original, original (like three years ago) idea for this fic is that Enjolras was supposed to have been the son of King Wenceslas and have helped Grantaire, but his dad took credit for it and he’s the one who went down in history, but Enjolras was actually the “good King” in the story. It was supposed to be about 2000 words and I scrapped the idea before writing it, but that’s kind of where the whole idea came from for the medieval version of an open forum. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


	8. Chapter 8

“I’m going to go to bed,” Grantaire decides.

Combeferre stares at him for a second, and Grantaire can almost see the little, perfectly suited Combeferre’s in his head trying to decide the likelihood that Grantaire’s serious.

They apparently aren’t always as on the ball as Grantaire would expect, because Combeferre just rolls his eyes slightly, crosses his arms, and says, “Your sarcasm is going to have to take a turn and walk out the door, please.”

“I’m serious. I’m going to go to bed,” Grantaire repeats. He lets out an over exaggerated yawn and stretch for good measure.

Combeferre doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “You’re serious.”

“Despite general consensus, I do have that capability within me. It so yearns to get out, sometimes, like a caged bird of—”

Combeferre holds his hand up to stop him, face twisted in a queasiness that Grantaire’s quite familiar with.

“Grantaire,” he starts slowly, like he’s having to convince an injured cat to give him its paw. “We need to figure out our plan of action.”

“Aren’t you the chief planner, here? Isn’t that your title? I don’t have to do anything.”

“This involves you, Grantaire—”

“Look, she promised to check all my food, there isn’t an immediate—”

“Not _immediate?_ If there’s anything that requires _immediate_ attention—”

“So focus your attention, I don’t see what I have to—”

“This is about you; you need to be—”

“I need to go into dreamland where I’m a fisherman who has never heard of a thing called regicide, but you don’t see—”

“Look, you’re a smart man, but—”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see how that sentence ends.”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre grits out through his teeth. “We can’t just assume the kitchen maid—”

“Floreal,” Grantaire supplies.

“Floreal is going to catch every attempt, no matter how careful she is. Whoever it was could use an invisible poison she would never catch.”

“I actually have an immunity to iocane powder,” Grantaire says helpfully, which he doesn’t think earns Combeferre’s groan and temple rub.

“Look, Combeferre,” Grantaire says, dropping his tone. It wasn’t that he wasn’t serious before, but there’s a layer of himself he knows exists as a buffer between him and the world, and even when he’s telling the truth, he needs to lower it so people will take him seriously. “I’m tired. I stayed up the entire night a day or two ago and didn’t get enough sleep yesterday to make up for it. I spent the last several hours listening to people complain at me. I’m a smart man, you’re an arguably smarter man - we both know this isn’t going to be solved tonight. We also both probably know that I’m not going to solve it at all. What is in my power to solve, however, is sleepiness. I’ll come to breakfast tomorrow, I promise, and we can talk then.”

He pats Combeferre’s arm before he turns to go. As he goes to open the door, he stops to hear Combeferre’s one last ask.

“Don’t tell Enjolras until we have talked again.”

Grantaire’s back is turned, but he lets himself nod visibly. He opens the heavy wood door and walks through.

* * *

Grantaire’s eyes are shut, but he can tell by the sliver of red from behind his eyelids that someone has cracked the door open slightly.

“Grantaire?”

He groans.

“Joly? Can it wait till morning?”

The door is pushed open with a creak, and Joly steps through. Grantaire pulls the blanket from around his shoulders over his head, effectively blocking out the small light from the candle-lit corridor. He can feel the bed dip as Joly sits.

“It’s barely past sundown. What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks, voice slightly muffled from speaking underneath a blanket. He can feel Joly pull it off his head, and dutifully keeps his eyes closed, so at least some part of him is still hidden. “I’m trying to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

A pregnant pauses passes, then, “Are you alright?”

That’s a tone Grantaire’s not used to with Joly - serious and quiet and worried.

He cracks open and eye, and there’s Joly, a couple feet away, his servant’s scarf tied haphazardly around his neck, like it fell and he couldn’t be bothered to put on again correctly. He’s hard to make out with simply the light from the cracked door, but his eyes are worried and focused.

“Why do you ask?” Grantaire asks, letting exhaustion close his eyes.

A huff. “It’s barely past sundown and you’re sleeping. That’s not typical.”

“Just tired.”

“Did something go wrong at the open forum?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, your silence and how you’re curled around that pillow like you’re protecting it say differently.”

Joly loves Grantaire, for whatever reason.

And thus Grantaire just sighs heavily, says, “Go away, Joly,” and hides his head under the pillow.

* * *

There’s something simmering in Grantaire. He doesn’t know what it is, or where it is even coming from inside him, but it’s bubbling like a water left a little too long on the fire, just starting to boil, and he has nothing, no equipment to lower the flames.

So he does what he does best and pushes it to the back of his head - whatever he’s feeling, he desperately doesn’t want to give it power by acknowledging it.

It’s still there, recognized or not, and he knows it by the way his muscles haven’t relaxed since he’s woken up, and by how he’s been staring at his banana with far too firm a grip for about a minute and a half.  

“Is something wrong with it?” Enjolras asks from his side. His hands are paused where he was peeling an orange, stopped in the motion by apparently his bafflement in Grantaire’s inability to act like a normal human this morning.

“I’m supposed to assume not,” Grantaire answers nonsensically, if Enjolras’s furrowed brow is any indication.

A few moments pass where Enjolras is digesting that reply, and Grantaire goes back to inspecting the banana for any puncture holes.

“What?”

Grantaire looks up in surprise, head turning towards Enjolras. He blinks, processing, before realizing that Enjolras’s question is probably in reply to the conversation they had been having a moment ago.

Grantaire should probably clarify, or at least put in some effort to converse, but he’s out of lines and is coming to the sudden realization that he probably isn’t actually going to be able to make this work given his propensity towards paranoia and a real fondness for his own life, despite what he might say.

Grantaire turns to his right, where Combeferre is silently cutting a pear into small pieces.

“Could we talk for a moment?” After a moment of deliberation, he turns to Enjolras, who is staring at the two of them with worried eyes. “You come too.”

* * *

He’s keyed up, a bundle of nervous energy. He can feel his fingers twitching in his pockets, and, as he leads the three of them into a small study right outside the Great Hall, he can’t help but speed walk, hoping it would less the knot he can feel in his shoulders through his back.

It doesn’t, and he finds himself bouncing on his toes in the middle of the room.

“Is there some kind of problem?” Enjolras asks, concern evident. He looks at Combeferre out of the corner of his eye, and Grantaire just thinks, _ah fuck it._

“Someone tried to poison my soup yesterday. Was it yesterday? The days are blurring. I think it was yesterday.”

Enjolras is gaping, eyes widened and mouth actually dropped. He turns to Combeferre, obviously seeking incredulity, and his face snaps into something much harder when he sees Combeferre rubbing his temple.

“Did you know?” Enjolras demands of Combeferre.

Grantaire bounces on his toes.

“Okay, look, Enjolras, yes, I knew—”

“When?”

“Yesterday. But—”

“You knew and didn’t immediately tell me?”

“You’re easy to rile up with emotions, and when you think emotionally, you stop thinking logically,” Combeferre answers, each word pointed and sharp. “We need a level head to solve this, and you coming in like an avenging angel isn’t going to help anything. I was going to tell you when I had a plan already in place.”

“You don’t get to make those kinds of decisions,” Enjolras spits back, and, really, this isn’t helping anything.

“Guys,” Grantaire interrupts. “I didn’t actually bring you here to fight.”

“Yes, Grantaire,” Combeferre says, turning, and his annoyed tone hasn’t dropped. “Please tell us why you brought us both here.”

“He knew, so you must have told him,” Enjolras says immediately, before Grantaire can even get a word in. “Why would you come to him first?”

“Because if someone knows what to do in a situation like this, it’s him,” Grantaire answers, waving a hand dismissively. “And I told you now, against his request, so you can shut up on whatever rant you’re planning on your head, I don’t want to hear it. What I want to hear is a plan to fix this, because I’m getting paranoid about organically encased fruit, so something tells me that human made food might actually send me into a panic attack.”

“We should tell my father,” Enjolras says decisively, and Combeferre groans, head dropping into his hand.

“Oh gods, Enjolras, _no._ Not right away.”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Enjolras firmly, crossing his arms and turning to fully face Combeferre.

Figures that Grantaire would be cut out of a conversation about his life. It does seem to be a running theme.

“He has the kind of power and connections to make this a full manhunt. Not to mention, he should be aware that there’s been an attack on the monarchy. How do we know this was a targeted attack rather than just an attack as a whole?”

“Because he was the only one targeted?” Combeferre answers, deadpan.

“Why Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, starting to pace. He’s in his thinking mode, the one he seems to fall into during small council meetings occasionally. Any minute, his hand will be in his hair, pulling it down unconsciously. “It doesn’t make sense. If they were after those in charge, it’d be my father or the Hand. If it was after the new monarchy, they should go after me - I’m the one who is actually instigating change. To most people, he’s going to seem more like a pawn that I’m pushing around rather than a real player. No offence,” he adds.

“Uh-huh,” Grantaire nods, slightly mollified and more than vaguely insulted.

“Agreed,” Combeferre says. “It has to be someone with a personal vendetta or someone who doesn’t want you dead, specifically. I think that leaves the Hand or the King.”

“It’s not my father,” Enjolras dismisses immediately. “And I still think it might not be targeted. Maybe Grantaire’s first.”

“Poison only works the first time,” Combeferre reminds him. “After that, everyone is on high alert. If it was an attack on the full monarchy, all the soup would have poisoned at once.”

“Maybe criminals aren’t as smart as you,” Enjolras snaps.

“Or maybe someone wants me dead,” Grantaire interjects, speaking for what feels like the first time in a half hour, even though he doubts its been more than a minute. Both men turn to him, and he swallows down some more energy. He bounces on his toes. “I’m just saying. The easiest answer is often the right one.”

“Which is why I think we should wait to tell your father,” Combeferre says, and great, they’re back to just talking at each other. “We should send in some spies, get some intel, to completely rule him out before we take any chances letting him know that we know.”

“No,” Enjolras states, matter of fact, like saying it aloud will make it so. If they were on ground, Grantaire is sure he’d be literally digging his heels in, rather than just metaphorically. “My father isn’t a murderer, and keeping him in the dark won’t help us. The sooner this is to light, the sooner we can have more people trying to find this person.”

“If you insist, then we should tell your father he tried to poison both of you,” Combeferre says, apparently cutting his losses. “He’d be more likely to try to find the person if you were also in harms way.”

“ _No,_ ” Enjolras says, and good gods, Grantaire thought _he_ was a stubborn asshole. “What if the fact that it was only Grantaire is an important piece of information to finding the assassin?”

“Enjolras—”

“You never come out the winner when you lie. It always comes back around, it always spirals. Honesty, in the end, is always the best policy.”

“Not when honesty is going to get your husband killed.”

“There’s got to be another way.”

“There is no other way.”

“That’s unimaginative.”

“By unimaginative do you mean practical?”

“By practical do you mean deceptive?”

“Pragmatic?”

“Calculating?”

“As much fun as this game of quoting the thesaurus is,” Grantaire interrupts, “I’m wondering if I get a say.”

Combeferre and Enjolras both turn to him, blinking in surprise, and Grantaire huffs with honest-to-gods fond irritation.

Enjolras looks to Combeferre, who shrugs.

“I can’t tell either of you what to do,” he says.

Enjolras turns his head back to Grantaire, and motions for him to speak.

“I want to leave.”

Enjolras’s brow furrows. “Leave? Leave where?”

“The castle. I want to go.”

Enjolras goes still, blood noticeably leaving his face, and Grantaire feels like a dick.

“Not permanently,” he rushes to add on. Enjolras lets out a breath and visibly slumps slightly, and Grantaire would be flattered if he would let himself think. “Just until the wedding. In the end, how are we going to find out who did it? Beyond sheer luck, there’s no way we’ll catch them. And thus there’s no way to know they won’t try again. But they can’t try again if I’m not here. I’ll just leave. Go and hang out out at an inn for a week or two, just until the wedding. After I take the oath, most reasons to kill me evaporate. Not all, given my personality, but most.”

Combeferre looks thoughtful. “That would—”

“That wouldn’t find the person responsible,” Enjolras interrupts. His hand is in his hair, pulling it down, Grantaire notes somewhere in his head. “Don’t you want to find the person who did this?”

Grantaire bounces on his toes.

“Well,” Grantaire starts. “I wouldn’t, like, _mind,_ but I’d rather be alive, in the, you know, grand scheme of things.”

“How about you stay alive and we find the person who tried to kill you?” Enjolras suggests.

“How about this isn’t a fairy tale and we don’t get to pick our ending?” Grantaire counters. “And how about I am more likely to stay alive not here?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, and then closes it, no words having come out. After a moment, he nods, eyes searching Grantaire’s face.

“You’re right. You should go.”

“If you go,” Combeferre interjets. “We need a reason. People may see it as you abandoning the situation and running from the marriage.”

“Ah fuck,” Grantaire mutters. “You’re right. Forget it. Leaving is nixed.”

“No, you were right.” Enjolras shakes his head, voice noticeably quieter. “You’re safer elsewhere.”

“If I go, people are going to talk. They’re going to wonder why, and they’re going to question your ability to keep a marriage alliance. It’s better for you if I stay.”

“Not if you die.”

“My meals are now being watched over extremely carefully.”

“Who says it’s poison next time? There’s thousands of ways to die, and they don’t have to pick one that you could stop.”

“If I leave, your political authority is put into question. I won’t have it.”

“I won’t have you staying and putting your life in jeopardy.”

“Oh for—” Combeferre throws up his hands. “I cannot believe I am going to have to deal with _two of you_ for the rest of my life. Let’s go tell the King that Grantaire’s leaving and the real reason why.”

Enjolras turns to him in surprise. “Are you sure?”

“ _No,_ ” Combeferre snaps, and stalks out of the room.

* * *

“Poison, you say?” the King asks.

“Hemlock,” Grantaire confirms.

Both the King and the Queen had retired to their joined study after breakfast. Combeferre was standing outside the door, unseen, and Enjolras and Grantaire had entered with far more pomp that Grantaire would have liked, but Enjolras seems incapable of doing anything without a bit of showmanship.

The Queen had nodded to Grantaire amicably when they walked in, but neither seemed to be overly pleased by them barging in. Enjolras’s opening line of, “There’s been an attack on monarchical authority,” seemed to wash away their annoyance rather fast. And wash it straight into Grantaire, who slightly wanted to die from all the attention.

“Where would someone even find hemlock?” the King asks, frowning.

“It’s everywhere. Jehan showed me a patch when we went out, once,” Grantaire answers. He’s standing behind Enjolras; he knows he’s not actually hidden, and having Enjolras between them as a barrier actually does nothing, but it’s somehow comforting, like a blanket when you’re a child that somehow feels like it repels monsters.

The King’s posture changes, just slightly, straightening slightly in a way that makes Grantaire want to take a step back.

“Oh, did he?” A pause. “Jehan knows a lot about poison, doesn’t he?”

“Yes sir,” Grantaire confirms. It may be helpful to have Jehan come in and confirm how deadly hemlock is, if only to scare the King into action, Grantaire thinks. “He’s basically an expert. He has an entire book of potions in his study - he let me read it before and after sessions.”

A hand is on his elbow. He looks over, and there’s Enjolras, eyes wide and his head shaking _no_ ever so slightly.

“Does he?” the King says, and, suddenly, Grantaire feels a spark of fear in his chest.

Grantaire does not answer.

“You’ve spent a lot of time with Jehan, haven’t you, Grantaire?”

“He’s the maester,” Grantaire answers, hesitant. “He’s my teacher, I’m required to meet with him.”

“So he knows you well.”

Grantaire does not answer. The hand on his elbow tightens.

“He asked the band to play a song for Grantaire,” the Queen interjects. “I remember.”

“He’s a kind friend,” Grantaire says. He can hear a soft, “shut up,” whispered from behind him.

“So he has spent a lot of time with you.”

“Jehan wouldn’t, father,” Enjolras says, quiet and resolved. “He’s not a murderer.”

“He was accused of witchcraft before,” the King says cooly, and Grantaire can feel the spark of fear ignite into a flame. “Murder isn’t a far step.”

“He was acquitted,” Enjolras responds firmly, cooly. “He would not harm Grantaire.”

“Frankly, Enjolras,” the Queen says, “I think you’re too close to the situation to see it clearly.”

Oh no. Oh, oh, no.

“Why would Jehan want me dead?” Grantaire asks, trying not to let his panic seep into the question. “He has nothing to gain.”

“He knows you well,” the King responds. “He’s spent a lot of time with you, in private. The gods know what he’s learned. It’s not inconceivable that he’s found himself a reason to not want you around.”

“He’s my friend,” Grantaire replies, quiet and taut.

“Grantaire,” the Queen address him softly, and shit, there’s a pressure building behind his eyes, brought on by sheer frustration. “More often than not, betrayal comes from people you’re close to.”

“Isn’t Jehan in the old cook’s quarters? That room with the staircase to the kitchen?” the King asks, and Grantaire can feel his stomach drop, drop, drop. “That gives him easy access to come and go and be seen minimally.”

“Indeed,” the Queen confirms. She stands and walks over to Grantaire, putting a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes are calm and sure, and certainly not as comforting as she believes they are. “Grantaire, I’m sorry. But you’ll see, in time. This position comes with a lot of enemies who mask themselves as friends. You’ll see, in time.”

The King nods to his guard, who, for once, Grantaire had not seen. “Notify the King’s Guard.”

The knight nods and turns to leave.

“You will not execute him without proof,” says Enjolras, a command, child to father, prince to king.

“Fine,” the King waves his hand idly. “Throw him in the dungeons.”

The knight leaves.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Grantaire, I’m sure you’re safe now. You’re both dismissed.”

* * *

“Well, that went splendidly.” Grantaire uncorks the wine and begins to pour. “An innocent man in now in the dungeon, my would-be murderer is still on the loose, and now the King thinks it’s resolved and won’t hear another word about it. What more could we have wanted?”

He takes a gulp of the wine.

“It wasn’t Jehan,” Enjolras says, closing the door behind them. “You know that, right?”

“Thank you, I’m going to purposefully not think about it,” Grantaire answers, pouring another glass.

Combeferre left immediately upon hearing the King’s response, leaving for gods know where. Grantaire had to admire the complete lack of “I-told-you-so.” Combeferre was always the bigger man - and not only in inches and feet.

“Jehan wouldn’t harm—”

“You know,” Grantaire interrupts. “It makes it hard to not think about when you’re still talking about it.”

Enjolras sighs. “Grantaire—”

“ _Not thinking about it,_ ” Grantaire sing-songs, before downing the full goblet of wine. He’s fairly certain some of it splashed onto his shirt. It’s not as strong a wine as the ones in Guilder, and he’s sorely annoyed by it for a moment.

Enjolras sits down into a chair, slumping immediately. They’re in his quarters. Grantaire’s only been there once before, and it looks remarkably the same. The chess set is even still in the corner, though he can see that the King’s crown has now been broken off as well.

Grantaire turns back around, ready to make some smart-ass comment he hasn’t even thought of yet, but is caught still by Enjolras, who is sitting in a chair, face in his hands.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks.

“Of course not.” His answer is muffled by his hands. When he lifts his head, Grantaire is stuck slightly by how miserable he looks. “I thought—It doesn’t matter. It’s just - nothing gets better, does it? You think things improve, and then it’s always _one more thing._ How can we ever plan for the future when we have so many battles in the present?”

“I’d hardly call this a battle.” Grantaire shrugs. “Too few swords, too few men, too many conversations behind doors. Though I suppose those happen in wars,” he says thoughtfully. “I’ve never been behind the doors, though. I would have thought there’d be more strategy and less sulking.”

“Must you?” Enjolras asks, sounding tired.

Grantaire isn’t letting himself think beyond what his eyes are taking in, but he can’t stop the little pang he feels at that.

“Probably not,” he admits. “But we cope differently, apparently.”

“Yeah.” Enjolras huffs an entirely unamused laugh. “I suppose we do. Not that we’d know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I barely know you.”

“Well—” Grantaire starts, but Enjolras shakes his head, halting him.

“After months of thinking you wouldn’t ever give me chance, and after days of knowing I do have one, the fact remains that I still don’t know anything about you.”

“You know some,” Grantaire objects.

“Some,” he shrugs, eyes contrastingly somber for the flippant gesture. “You like green. You like to dance. You’re handy with a sword. You seem to like horses. I know,” he trails off, seemingly lost for words. “I know things about you,” he settles on eventually. “But I don’t know you.”

Grantaire is almost never on this end of this conversation. For the few, and that is a very select group of people, who wanted to get to know him, Grantaire simply let them in, and they learned in time. He’s usually the one pushing, and the others are the ones pushing away.

But Grantaire isn’t pushing, and Grantaire understands.

He knows how Enjolras takes his breakfast, but he doesn’t know if he’s a morning person. He’s seen him run his hands through his hair more times than he count, but he doesn’t know why he keeps it long. He doesn’t know if Enjolras has any scars, any birthmarks. He wants to know how quickly Enjolras can run, and if he’s been trained in combat, or tactics, or war in any capacity, and he wants to know, down to the second, how long it takes him to go to bed. And he wants to know what led him to wanting to abolish the government, his own position, and his own authority, no matter how painful the road. He wants to know his favorite thing to fold into paper, his favorite season, his favorite animal, his fears, his dreams, his smile in every different instance.

He wants.

He doesn’t have.

Enjolras stares at him, eyes lost in some emotion that Grantaire finds very, very familiar.

“Maybe,” Enjolras says. “We’ll just never have our timing right.”

Maybe we’ll be bad for each other, Grantaire thinks.

Maybe you’ll be better off with me gone, Grantaire thinks.

Maybe wanting us to work and having us work are far more separate than we thought, Grantaire thinks.

“Well,” Grantaire finally says. “That’s assuming there’s a right time for anything.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrow, digesting that, before he shakes his head with a small laugh, more genuine this time.

“You never respond the way you’re supposed to.”

“Hey, if I wasn’t unpredictable, you’d have no reason to be interested in me.”

Enjolras’s eyes go soft.

He reaches out a hand and Grantaire takes it.

Maybe, Grantaire thinks, what matters most is they both chose to take the other’s hand. The rest comes next.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says softly, his thumb caressing Grantaire’s hand softly. “Come back.”

“I will.”

“Come back,” he asks, seriously. A request, not a command.

“I will,” Grantaire answers, a promise, not a comfort.

* * *

The pub’s sign still reads “Best Stew and Ale,” painted in crudely drawn letters.

“This isn’t out of Florin,” Bossuet says, frowning.

“No. I don’t want to be gone, just hidden. And I know the owner, and I think she’ll hide me,” Grantaire answers, swinging down off Potato. A cloud of dust erupts under his feet as he lands, and Joly coughs slightly behind him. He hands her reins to the stable manager and flicks him a coin.

Joly and Bossuet follow him into the pub, and it’s dimly lit and poorly cleaned as before, and Grantaire feels some of the tension bleed from his shoulders.

“Hey,” says a voice behind them. They all swivel, and there’s Eponine, wearing the same cotton shirt and long skirts. “If it isn’t the new King’s whatever spouse. Are these your minions?”

“I know not what you say, my lady,” Grantaire says, putting on a terrible Western accent that has Eponine’s brows raising. “I’m just a wandering folk trying to sell my wigs at pubs.”

“Can I see your wigs?” she asks. The corner of her mouth twitches as Grantaire makes a show of patting his pockets with exaggerated confusion.

“I seem to have lost them all. Could us three nobody's maybe secure a room while we look for where we lost them all?”

She heaves a half sigh, half laugh.

“As long as you can pay, you’re welcome to a room.” She points to a table behind them. “Take a seat, I’ll bring you some ale.”

They all sit, Bossuet banging his sword into the table behind them, and Joly hitting his shin into the bench, but they make it.

Eponine joins them a minute later, four jugs of ale in her arms. Once again, Grantaire’s distinctly impressed with her competence. He has no doubt she’d be able to live on the street with little to no issues. Grantaire doubts he’d make it an afternoon without his luxuries.

She takes a seat, straddling the bench across from him.

“So, you total commoner - may I ask why you’re here and not where you’re from?”

“Political shit,” Grantaire answers honestly.

“Wedding still on?”

“Better be.”

“Not gonna elaborate?”

“Don’t take it personally,” Joly buts in. “I’ve known him my entire life and he only told me because I literally hit him over the head with a book until he told me why we had to leave.”

True.

“Joly, Bossuet, will you maybe leave us be for a few?”

“I’m supposed to be guarding you, sire,” Bossuet says.

Enjolras had wanted Bahorel to join them, but Grantaire thought it would be too suspicious to have a full knight flanking him. Bossuet was a trained knight, and knew how to guard, and no one would ever recognize him from the King’s army.

They both roll their eyes at him, but stand.

“Room five,” Eponine says. Her hands are drumming on the table, curved around her mug of ale. “Down the back hall, past the kitchen.”

“Bag of coins first, Joly,” Grantaire says. Joly chucks them at him, probably harder than necessary given they make a noise upon impact with Grantaire’s hand.

Grantaire knows a lot of Joly’s anger is covering for fear he doesn’t want to show, so Grantaire lets it slide without comment.

He opens up the purse. “I finally got Florinians. I can actually pay you with useful currency this time.”

He slides over six coins. She looks down at them, and then back up into his eyes.

“This is two more than necessary.”

“I know.”

“I don’t need your extra money.”

“Neither do I. So just take it, accept it, forget it, and move on.”

She taps the table with her middle finger, twice, and then reaches forward, sliding the money down off the table and into a bag tied around her waist.

She nods to him slightly, and then picks up her ale. “Is there a name you want me to call you?”

“Just R.”

“R.” She nods. “Probably good I don’t go around saying your real name. You’ve made quite the reputation around here.”

“Oh good gods,” Grantaire groans. “That’s just great. What is it this time, the increased sales of wine? The lack of bills passed the past couple months?”

Eponine looks at him, eyebrows raised, scornful.

“No.”

“Then what?” he asks.

She puts her feet up on his chair and he shifts to accommodate them. She crosses her arms, and raises her eyebrow higher. “Well, what with my new cow, Musichetta’s new glassblowing business, Montparnasse new tailor apprenticeship due to a recommendation letter from you, Babet’s tales of the Prince who came down to the pitch to par with him, Claquesous's nephew who was able to send money for their sick aunt for the first time since working at the palace, the Bishop who told of how the new Prince actually listened to what he was saying at the complaints forum—”

“What the fuck.”

“Not to mention the couple dozen people who work at the palace weekdays and come home for the weekends with stories of how kind, talkative, and not elitist the new Prince is.” She hesitates. “Or the local innkeeper's daughter who told of how he came to her place as friends with the most respected maester by the people of all time, respectfully ate, and left her and her little brother with more than a meal was worth, Guildarian coins or not.”

Grantaire is speechless.

“Where do you think people get their ideas of the rulers, Grantaire? The news? Since when is a weekly paper produced by the rulers going to be honest about what they are like? Is there going to be a piece in there about how the Hand of the King threw a plate at a kitchen worker? Not to mention that commoners often can’t read.” She shakes her head. “No, people know the rulers by the whispers of the people. Revolutions happen because of word of mouth of those people King’s can’t see, the invisible. The help.

“And the reverse is true. Who you are, truly are, will travel. And so it has.”

“This is only one town.”

“And word of reputation travels as fast as the people.”

“And what of Enjolras’s reputation?” Grantaire manages to ask, diverting.

“Always good. He listens, he pushes for the people, it shows. But he’s always a little enigma - no one knows him well.” She chuckles, and pokes him in the thigh with her toe. “It is certainly not going to be hurt by you telling everyone who will listen all his virtues.”

Grantaire colors. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just, he’s - He’s.” Grantaire shakes his head, trying to think of an adequate comparison. “He’s the color in a painting.”

“He’s certainly something, I guess. Apparently you told the paper shop keeper about how good his sentence structure is in bills, last time you were here.”

“He writes really well,” Grantaire objects reasonably.

Eponine just shakes her head, hair swaying, and Grantaire takes that as an opportunity to finish his drink and examine the inn.

He can feel Eponine’s heavy stare, and so he glances back at her, and asks a nervous, “What?”

Eponine taps her foot on the chair, steady gaze thoughtful. “You know,” she says at last. “I’m not sure you understand the opportunity you two have here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have the support of the commoners. They’ll stand behind you. If you fully stand behind him,” she shakes her head. “Imagine what you could accomplish. The public and the power, united at last.”

“I didn’t do any of this for support,” Grantaire says. “I didn’t give people things so they’d, I don’t know, support me politically. That wasn’t the intent.”

“I know,” says Eponine. “And so do they. And that’s why they will support you.”

Grantaire buries his head in his hand. His hair still has twigs in it from the journey.

“What goes around comes around, Grantaire.”

“Yeah. I just never thought that would be a good thing,” Grantaire marvels, not lifting his head.

* * *

He’s buzzed after about an hour and his, Joly’s, and Bossuet’s pitchers of ales, but not drunk - at least, not drunk enough that his brain can’t think, and overthink, and keep thinking.

He’s consciously concentrating on reciting kingdom names and capitals to himself to keep his thoughts occupied as he goes to his room.

He can hear the arguing from several feet outside the door.

He pushes it open.

They’re both standing in the middle of the room, neither looking pissed, but both animated. Joly’s saying, “we’d never know!”

“Never know what?” Grantaire asks, closing the door behind him.

They both turn, eyes alight.

“If it was a servant.”

“If what was a servant?”

“Who poisoned you!”

“Out of every topic you could possibly be talking about,” Grantaire says, feeling the alcohol starting to make his head hurt, somewhere above his eye. “You choose the one thing I’d rather jump off a cliff than hear.”

“I don’t think it was a servant,” Bossuet says.

“Thank you for your valued input,” Grantaire retorts, sitting down on the bed. His fingers dig into his pants, wrinkling the fabric.

“Don’t be a dick,” Joly says.

“You are what you eat,” Grantaire says without thinking.

“Still unnecessary,” Joly responds.

“Back to the subject matter at hand,” Bossuet interrupts. “I don’t think a servant has cause! There has to be a reason for doing it. It’s far more likely it’s the Hand.”

“But when would the Hand have _time?_ ” Joly responds, turning back to Bossuet. “He would have been missed at dinner - someone would have seen him leave.”

“It’s not that odd for someone to leave dinner for a moment, or come in late.”

His fingers tighten into a fist.

He rocks forward unconsciously.

“It’s stupid to do it yourself! He could have hired someone—”

“Who would do that? Who likes the Hand more than Grantaire?”

“His manservant!”

“Oh, because the kitchen _never would have recognized his manservant,_ ” Joly mocks.

“Hey, they could have—”

“Likely chance—”

“Would you guys _stop?”_ A voice says, harsh and biting, and it takes a moment for Grantaire to realize it’s come from him.

Joly’s mouth snaps shut and Bossuet’s eyes widen in astonishment.

Blankly, Grantaire realizes his fingernails are cutting into his palm. There’s a droplet of blood, but he can’t seem to unclench his fist.

“Grantaire?” Bossuet starts uneasily.

“Just, _be quiet, stop talking about it,”_ he says.

His shoulders are starting to lock up around his ears, and, almost out of body, he realizes he’s lost all control of his lungs.

“Breathe.” Bossuet’s hand is on his back, warm and large and grounding, and Grantaire did not see him move. “Breathe. It’ll be okay. You’ll be fine and live a long, happy life.”

“I have evidence,” Grantaire grits out, fingernails digging into his palms. Fuck, the ground seems to be expanding and decreasing in size every few seconds. “To the contrary.”

“Breathe,” Bossuet commands.

“No, I’m going to keep talking until I run out of breath and then pass out and don’t have to exist anymore,” Grantaire bites back, and fuck, he did use a lot of breath to say that, and fuck, why isn’t more air coming into his lungs, how do you breathe again, what does it take, what do you do, his head is getting tighter, air isn’t, air, where—

“Breathe, Grantaire,” Bossuet commands, taking a deep breath.

His eyes are swimming with unshed tears, but he’s able to mimic Bossuet enough that his lungs get the picture, gasping in air, and suddenly he’s coughing, slightly, too much air, too much, and fuck, why can’t he remember how to do it, he just did it, how do people do this without thinking, where is the fucking _air_ _—_

“Breathe, Grantaire,” Bossuet says again, and Grantaire can’t, how can you do that, what do you even do, but then there’s a grip on his shoulder, too tight but grounding, and Grantaire intakes a breath of air in surprise.

“Grantaire, you’re panicking. You need to regulate your breathing. Mimic me. Come on, breathe in.”

It takes several minutes, but the fog clears from his head, the panic bleeding from his eyes.

He’s on the bed, hunched, his hands curled into fists and pushing into the hardwood bed frame.

It takes a moment, but he realizes he’s cold.

There’s a hand on his back, and he realizes after a moment it’s still Bossuet, who doesn’t seem to realize that Grantaire’s managed to come back into his own head.

He shrugs off the hand.

He lifts his head to see Joly, pale, several feet away, and Bossuet, still kneeling next to the bed, eyes worried.

“Are you okay?”

“Will you _please_ stop talking about the assassination?”

“Of course,” Bossuet says immediately.

“Attempted assassination,” Joly corrects. Grantaire closes his eyes, but he knows it was more for Joly’s comfort than his own.

“I wasn’t aware it bothered you,” Bossuet said, guilty.

“Of course it bothers me. It’s about my _death._ ”

“Yeah, but—not like that.”

“It was fine when I didn’t think about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Bossuet apologies.

“It’s—” Grantaire waves a hand. “Whatever.”

“Still.”

“How could this happen again?” Grantaire asks the wind, head in his hands. He can feel his fingers actually pulling out little tufts of hair, which he’ll probably regret in the morning. At this moment, the pain just feels good - grounding. “I thought this was over. I thought I was done - being this.”

“Being what?” Bossuet asks gently. Grantaire can sense him settle down, legs crossed.

“Being panicked. Being sad. Being unsure and unhappy and—” Without his permission, he can feel some sound of emotion erupt from his throat. “Being un-everything.”

He can feel a light pressure around his wrists, and Bossuet draws his hands away from his head slowly, but surely. With his hands down, he can’t think of any reason not to look up. Bossuet is right there, kind and close, dark eyes quiet and gentle, and something in him sags.

“Not to, uh, be rude or anything, but why would you think you were done with all that?”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire admits. “He wants me. And I have friends, real friends, who actually like me and aren’t paid to. And I have a place. And I have a future. Things are actually fine. But I’m not. I mean, I was for a few days. But now I’m not again.”

“You have had a bit of stress lately,” Bossuet reminds him.

Grantaire shakes his head. “It’s that, but it’s not that. That made it come on, but it’s just. I thought all that would fix me.”

“People can’t be fixed, Grantaire, because they can’t be broken. You can only put back together what has a place in the first place - and people don’t have little slots inside them where things are supposed to go.”

“Everyone else seems to.”

“Everyone else is are better at hiding their mess than you are,” Joly pops up from the corner. Bossuet glares at him, and Grantaire’s glad he did so - not that he doesn’t love Joly’s ribbing, but there’s moments when it feels more like a barb than a jab, no matter the intent.

“Everyone else seems to be happy. They have their happily ever after, they end up happy.”

“Endings aren’t real, Grantaire. What happens the day after you find your one true love? Or after you slay the dragon? Or after you find the treasure? You still have to get out of bed the next morning. You don’t end just because something happens that would make a good last chapter. And, furthermore,” Bossuet says, eyes starting to blaze with that boundless excitement he’s so prone to, “No one ‘ends up’ happy because ‘happy’ is an emotion, and emotions don’t stay. They last like, what, 12 hours, if you’re lucky? You’re not going to find someone who had something good happen to them and then are happy for every waking moment of the rest of their lives - happiness fades, and then you’re just left with the baseline of you again. I think the key is to make that baseline a little higher, whenever you can. And by finding Enjolras, and finding friends, and finding a new life - I think you’ve given yourself that opportunity to make that baseline higher. But you can’t expect it to just automatically _be better._ It’ll get there, and it’ll be easier now that you’re here - but it takes time. It takes time every day, and you just need to work for it - work for it and wait. And that’s the hard part.”

“Every day, huh?” Grantaire says.

“Every day you choose.”

“Do you ever think about the fact that we could just choose not to - not to be this?”

“What do you mean?” Bossuet asks.

Grantaire picks a loose thread on his pants. “I mean, we _could_ just leave. Not all that many people know what I look like. I could get on Potato, and just ride north until I hit a little farming village that has no idea who I am. I could pretend to be someone wanting to, I don’t know, get into sheep herding. And then I could buy a little sheep farm and just live. No obligations, no expectations, no royalty. I could just - be. We both could. There’s nothing stopping us, not really. We have control over ourselves.”

“Is that what you would do?” Bossuet asks. “If given two weeks left to live - would you just ride north? Find a sheep farm and live quietly?”

Grantaire lets his head thunk onto the wall beside him. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d probably grab you guys and Enjolras, maybe Courfeyrac, maybe even Combeferre, maybe Sally, that chambermaid from Guilder. And I’d just put us all in the same house for a few weeks. And we could just be. Just all exist together without - without all the bullshit of expectations and classes and ranks.” He snorts. “And maybe good beer and a good place outdoors to sit and relax.”

“Well, that does sound beautiful,” Bossuet says. He gives Grantaire a little smile, and, somehow, the familiarity of it makes Grantaire ache. “But the problem is that you have many, many years left to live. And you have expectations, and ranks, and obligations. And when the sun rises tomorrow, those things are still going to exist.”

“I know, I know.” Grantaire pulls the thread harder. “What I want doesn’t matter. I just wish sometimes that what I want and what I have would overlap.”

“I seem to remember,” Joly pops up from the corner of the room. “Several months ago, back on this long-ass journey to this weird, new country we’d never been in, Florin, maybe you’ve heard of it, you said that you just wished you could marry someone you respected, and maybe even liked. Maybe when what you want and what you have start to overlap you just forget what you wanted existed in the first place.”

“You once wanted what you have,” Bossuet summaries far more succinctly. “Is it really that hard to imagine that that’ll happen again in the future?”

“What if it doesn’t work out?”

“You both want it to,” Joly says. “I think that was far more than half the battle.”

“Ugh,” Grantaire not-answers, letting himself fall back on the bed. His stomach spins uncomfortably, all the booze making itself known. “I want today to be over.”

“I have a solution for that,” Joly says, with pep. “It’s called sleep, and it’s wonderful.”

* * *

“Grantaire, you need to get up.”

Grantaire groans, his head already starting to pound.

“Nooo. Just, five — five more hours, okay?”

“Grantaire, they don’t bring you breakfast here. If you miss it, you miss it.”

“I’ll let my stomach down, then. Sorry in advance, stomach.”

The pillow disappears under his head, and his head thunks against the mattress. Given it’s a mattress, it doesn’t thunk particularly hard, but Grantaire’s head pounds anyway.

“Hey, no, that was mine, I was using it, give it back,” he says, sitting up. The motion makes his head swim and his stomach recoil, and he closes his eyes in agony.

“Apparently her ale was some strong stuff,” Joly says thoughtfully, and if he still had that pillow, he’d be throwing it at him.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, head in hands. “Is this behavior really all that different from what I’m normally like in the mornings?”

“You’re usually at least in bed clothes,” Joly mocks.

Grantaire looks down, and yes, he didn’t change. Apparently, he didn’t even take off his shoes.

“Isn’t it your job to make sure I’m ready for bed, oh manservant?” Grantaire says, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. His back cracks all the way down, and he immediately feels better.

“As a manservant, yes. As an apprentice of a wig maker, no.”

There’s a lull in conversation and Grantaire begins to crack his various bones and stretch the muscles he knows how to wiggle. He’s mostly awake by the time Joly asks, tentatively, “Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Sorry for the mental breakdown,” Grantaire says, bending down to tie his shoe and avoid Joly’s eye. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t apologize. But are you feeling better?”

He’s feeling rather empty.

Yesterday, it felt like a bee was caught under his skin, buzzing and buzzing and buzzing, not letting him be still, stinging his head with the memory of possible death.

It seems the breakdown swatted the bee - his brain is empty, a blank canvas, a thoughtless field. He’s no longer panicking to squash down the thoughts of his impending death, but he’s not particularly feeling _anything -_ like by swatting the bee he also swatted all his other emotions, and there’s nothing left but a heavy weightlessness.

“Yeah, I guess,” he answers, belatedly. “I’m not feeling worse.”

“I’ll take it,” Joly says. “And I swear - we won’t mention it anymore.”

Now that his brain unscrewed at let out the flood of toxic thoughts, Grantaire finds he almost wants to talk about it. Something feels off with the whole situation, like the answer is directly in-front of him, just hidden - like one of his picture books when he was young, where you had to find the man painted in plain sight.

The gears in his head are turning, they just aren’t catching on one another.

Grantaire cracks his neck.

“Let’s eat.”

"You eat," Joly says. "I already did, with the sun."

* * *

He’s halfway through breakfast when he realizes there’s a child underneath the table.

“Gavroche,” he greets.

“Sir,” the kid answers. He’s still got that twangy accent, though Grantaire’s sure it’s not natural. “‘Ponine told me about you after you left last time. Are you really royal?”

“Soon.”

The kid scoots forward, his arms coming up to rest on the bench Grantaire sitting on. Grantaire wonder what he looks like to the other patrons, vaguely hunched over to look under the table.

“Were you really a knight from Guilder?”

“Yup.”

“Did you fight any battles?”

“Just boundary skirmishes.”

“Were you ever injured?”

“Mostly psychologically.”

Gavroche bites his lip, and, suddenly, Grantaire’s aware that this is still a kid, street-smart or not. “Why do you want to know about knights, Gavroche?”

“Imma try to be one when I’m old. ‘Ponine says they’re given food and water and shelter for free, as long as they fight. And I’m willin’ to fight.”

“Who are you willing to fight for? The King of Florin?”

Gavroche shakes his head. “Nah. ‘Ponine says he has a monarchical asshole.” Grantaire spends a moment to wonder the probability that that was what Eponine actually said. “But he won’t be King once I’m old enough to fight.”

“That’s true,” Grantaire concedes. “Prince Enjolras is taking the throne in a week or so.”

“And you,” Gavroche adds. “You’ll be a leader too. I’d fight for you.”

Grantaire can feel his throat start to close. “Well,” he says, unsteady. “If I’m King, you’ll never have to.”

Gavroche doesn’t answer, just falls back down into the sitting position, hidden under the table. He pulls something from his pocket, flipping it around in his hand.

Something on it catches Grantaire’s eye, and he finds himself back leaning under the table.

“Hey, Gavroche.” He nudges the kid with his foot, and Gavroche looks up, annoyed. In his hand, a coin is spinning. “What do you got there?”

Gavroche flips it to him with a flick of his thumb, and Grantaire catches it in his palm.

It’s a bronze coin with a bushel of wheat beveled into the metal.

Grantaire rubs this design with his thumb, intimately familiar with every angle. He designed the artwork on the new decade’s set of coins three years past.

“Why do you have a Guildarian coin?” Grantaire asks, flipping it back to him. “I could have sworn the one you stole off me was silver.”

“It was, my Lord,” Gavorche answers, the title sounding more like an insult than an honor out of his young mouth. “I didn’t take this one from you.”

Grantaire’s face clouds in confusion.

“Who the hell around here has Guildarian coins?” Traveling between the two countries is still discouraged, given the animosity.

“Don’t know. He was here a guest here a few days ago.”

“Gavroche,” Grantaire says slowly. He can practically feel gears turning faster in his head, spinning freely, moments from catching on one another and pulling together the whole contraption into a working picture. “What did he look like?”

“I dunno, like a man.”

“What was he wearing? Specifically?”

“I dunno. Not formal wear. Peasant stuff. Blue scarf.”

“Blue scarf,” Grantaire repeats.

And so the gear catches.

“Gavroche, have you seen the small man I came here with?”

* * *

“You need me to do what?”

“Deliver a letter to Combeferre. Or Enjolras. Preferably Combeferre, he’ll be less pissed.”

Joly stares, unblinking.

“Can’t you send it with the mailmen who come in a few days?”

“No, because the whole problem is who receives the mail.”

A moment passes, then two, and then, “ _What?_ ”

Grantaire looks around, and then pulls Joly’s arm, leading him back into their room. He shuts the door and locks it.

“Joly, I think I figured out who tried to kill me.”

His eyes widen. “Why didn’t you _lead with that?_ ”

“Because we were out in the—look, it doesn’t matter, can you deliver this letter?”

“I’m not putting one foot in front of the other until you tell me what’s happening.”

“I don’t want to talk about this where someone might overhear—”

Joly falls to the floor into a sitting position. He raises an eyebrow.

Grantaire rolls his eyes and sighs, and sits down next to him.

No one will overhear in a locked room, right?

“Joly, think broadly,” he starts quietly. “Really broadly. Who wants me dead?”

“The Hand,” Joly says promptly.

“Broader,” Grantaire prods.

“Can we not do the whole twenty questions thing?”

Grantaire scratches his head, and then leans in. He better be right - if not, this may cause incredible political problems. “Guilder, Joly.”

Joly leans back, surprised.

“Guilder?”

“Guilder doesn’t want peace. We both know that better than anyone _._ Me as a peaceweaver is their worst _nightmare._ First, me, and second, peace. They want a reason to attack. What’s smarter than sending a letter telling them to accept and not harm me or there would be consequences, and then sending an assassin to kill me?”

“A Guildarian?” Joly says, astonished. “But, how could a royal—”

“Not a royal,” Grantaire corrects. “A peasant. Gavroche said a man with a blue scarf was here a few days ago.”

Joly looks down at his own scarf, the trademark of a servant. His is Florin red now, instead of the trademark blue from Guilder.

“No one notices the help. He could easily have pretended to be a Florinian servant once he left here and ditched the scarf - and no one would have known the difference.”

“But how do you know he wasn’t a servant to a Guildarian who had come in for the wedding?” Joly points out. “That’s a reason someone from Guilder could be here.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I saw the guest list. No one from Guilder was marked as coming. There’s no reason a Guildarian should have been here.”

Joly sits a moment, digesting. Then, “What’s that have to do with the letters?”

“Right, well, this is even more speculation - but, I was thinking, for the Guildarian to get into the castle, get into the kitchens, know where everything was, know my soup, know when to come - it makes sense there’d be someone from the Florin helping coordinate. But how do you send a letter like that without it getting flagged from the official letter writer and ambassador?”

“Aren’t _you_ the official letter writer and ambassador?” Joly asks.

“I was. But I gave up the position to a man on the council.” What’s his name, what’s his name, what the _fuck_ is his—oh, right. “Felix. It’s anyone’s guess why he’d want me dead.”

“Could you take back your position if you wanted?” Joly asks.

Grantaire blinks.

“Well, yes, I suppose if I asked, he’d have to give it back.”

“There.” Joly slaps his thigh. “Motive.”

Grantaire considers it. “I suppose. That’s a fundamental misunderstanding of my character, but, yes, I suppose. But, anyway, if I died, what would happen? Enjolras couldn’t take the crown. And who would take the crown if I didn’t?”

Joly shrugs, bemused.

“Marius and Cosette. Who, for some reason, were written a letter sent by the official ambassador and told to come to the wedding a week early. They’ve been at the castle since the day before my attempting poisoning.”

“So they’d be ensured to be there to take the oath immediately,” Joly supplies.

“That’s my guess.”

Grantaire reaches into his pocket, and pulls out the slightly creased paper. “So - will you deliver the letter?”

“Your wish, my command, your majesty,” Joly says, taking the letter from him. He stands awkwardly, and then pats Grantaire on the head as he turns to leave.

* * *

Five days later, Joly returns.

Bossuet and Grantaire are sitting on their bed, playing some card game that Bossuet is badly losing, mostly because Grantaire’s making up the rules as they go along. Joly barges in, door hitting the frame, and Grantaire falls off the bed.

“Holy fuck,” he says from the ground, clutching his heart. “Were you the assassin all along?”

“Nope,” Joly says. There’s real glee in his face. “But they got the real one in the dungeons.”

Grantaire sits up, so fast the blood rushes to his head.

“What, seriously? Who was it?”

“You’re a smarter man than you give yourself credit for.” It’s not an answer, but, still, it is.

“I never thought I wasn’t smart,” Grantaire says, standing. “I just think I’m an idiot.”

* * *

They’re rounding the hill that brings him home when Joly speaks.

“Ready?”

“For?” There is numerous answers, Grantaire’s sure, and he’s actually curious which one Joly means.

“In that castle awaits your future husband,” Joly answers, prompting Bossuet’s large, soft grin, and a flutter in Grantaire’s heart.

He can picture him on the altar, if he lets his mind run away with him: short Enjolras, short enough Grantaire can rest his arm on Enjolras’s head easily. Blond curls, long, almost to his shoulders. Strong eyes, kind piercing light blue eyes. The cunning edge to his smiles, and an offered hand.

He kicks Potato in motion, suddenly beyond eager to be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next comes weddings and coronations and endings, oh my!


	9. Chapter 9

“Oh my gods, thank above you’re back,” Courfeyrac shouts from the back of the stable. Grantaire smiles as he watches Courfeyrac head over to him, bucket of grooming supplies in his hand. He’s coming rather fast, but his trajectory seems to be slightly off.

It takes a moment of Courfeyrac furiously petting and smoothing her side, but Grantaire realizes Courfeyrac wasn’t talking to him, but to Potato.

“Good to see you too,” Grantaire greets him, halfway to offended and unsure if it was worth the energy to get the full way there.

Courfeyrac looks around Potato’s side and grins toothily at him, and Grantaire can feel some of his annoyance melt away.

“You do realize your wedding is in two days, right? And after the coronation you have to do a ride throughout the neighboring Kingdom so people will know what you look like? And to do that, you need your royal horse? And your royal horse needs to be _clean,_ and _braided,_ and she’s off- _white,_ Grantaire, do you know how long it takes to clean a white horse—”

“Are you going to make my Potato look regal?” Grantaire says in an attempt at levity. He goes to pet her neck, but Courfeyrac grabs her reins, and her head startles away from his hand, leaving it in midair.

“Give her to me,” Courfeyrac says, with probably undue amounts of urgency in his voice.

Mildly, Grantaire lets Courfeyrac take the reins from him. Courfeyrac clicks once with his tongue, and they head off towards the back of the barn, Potato’s hooves clip-clopping loudly against the floor. After about ten or so steps, Grantaire staring after them a little bemusedly, they stop. Courfeyrac throws the reins back over her head, turns to her, says “Stay” with a finger raised to her nose, and then turns. He walks back over to Grantaire and stops in front of him.

“Grantaire.”

“Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac glances around, but no one is paying them any mind. Behind him, Potato has dropped her head and has begun licking the floor.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Courfeyrac says, and Grantaire figures he shouldn’t be surprised Combeferre told him what happened.

Grantaire goes to reply, but he finds himself with an armful of Courfeyrac and a mouthful of Courfeyrac’s hair. It only lasts a moment, so fast he barely has time to squeeze back. Courfeyrac pulls back, squeezes his elbow one last time, dark eyes full of a kindness that Grantaire really should come to expect by now.

Grantaire means to ask him if he wants any help around the stable, given how busy they are, but he finds himself quietly standing in the aisle, watching Courfeyrac pull up Potato’s head and lead her towards a bathing stall silently, and he finds himself smiling without really knowing why.

* * *

He’s bumped into by a stable hand he doesn’t know, who goes to snap at him and then promptly turns white when he sees who it is. The guy runs off before Grantaire can say anything, but it does prompt him to move from where he’s standing. He debates trying to make himself useful, maybe moving hay bales or cleaning tack, but decides to head up to the castle, as he may unwillingly make himself a nuisance. He’s never been all that good at telling when he crosses the threshold from ‘helpful’ to ‘in the way.’

He turns and makes his way down the aisle. As he turns the corner to go outside of the barn, he stops abruptly, almost hitting into another person.

He snaps his head up, ready to apologize, but the apology falls from his lips when he sees who it is.

“Feuilly,” Grantaire greets, startled. Feuilly looks back at him in equal surprise, eyes wide and hands dropping to his side thoughtlessly. “Hi, hello.”

“Hello, sire,” Feuilly greets after a beat. “What are you doing—”

“Just got back with Potato.”

Feuilly sighs with relief. “Thank gods, now Courfeyrac will stop mumbling under his breath about her.”

Grantaire smiles involuntarily. “How are you, Feuilly?” he asks. “How have you been since the transfer?”

Feuilly sets down the pails of grain he’d been carrying. Wiping the dirt on his hands off on his pants, he says, “Oh, very well. I’ve been working with Courfeyrac, mostly, though Combeferre did ask me to help write some letters for the wedding.”

“Which did you prefer?”

“There’s benefits to both,” Feuilly says, rubbing his nose. “I like the physical work of the stables, but there’s something more satisfying about having to do a set amount of tasks and then seeing it done before you - like a pile of finished letters.”

“Guess it would be hard to see with with horses,” Grantaire concedes.

A voice from inside the grain room calls, loudly, startling both of them, “Feuilly - do you have the feed?”

“Yes,” he yells back, almost in Grantaire’s ear, making him wince. He turns back to Grantaire and shifts, a little awkwardly. “I really should get—”

“Oh yeah, no,” Grantaire hurries. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“Grantaire?” Feuilly says, stopping Grantaire from turning to go. “It was good to see you.” There was nothing but genuinity in his voice.

“You too,” Grantaire says back, hoping how much he means it seeps into his voice. “Keep up the good work.”

Feuilly smiles and then bows before picking up his pails of grain and heading into the first stall.

Grantaire watches him disappear into the stall, feeling oddly sad.

It’s odd, he muses as he turns to walk back to the castle, that he left Guilder in his dust, hundreds of miles away, housing hundreds of people he knew for years upon years, and barely spent anytime missing anyone. And now, here he is, missing someone that’s living in the same castle.

* * *

He enters the castle’s door and almost stops in his tracks.

“Why are there so many fucking people in here?” he wonders aloud.

“The wedding and coronation, sir,” someone answers, and Grantaire whirls around. It’s a servant girl, one that looks vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place it.

“What’s your name?”

“Azelma,” she answers with a small bow.

Ah, Grantaire remembers. The girl Enjolras helped.

“It’s a pleasure,” he says, bowing back. “And who are all these people?”

“Guests,” she says. And then adds, once more, “For your wedding and coronation.”

“Guests,” he repeats. “How many in total?”

“A few hundred.”

“Am I required to talk to any of them?”

“I don’t think so,” she answer hesitantly. “I could ask the King?”

“Nope, nope, no,” he says quickly, “that is not necessary.”

“Or the Crown Prince,” she says. “Though I think he’s in a meeting, currently.”

“Also not necessary. Although,” he says, biting his lip in thought. “Is Maester Jehan available?”

* * *

“Grantaire,” Jehan greets, standing from the floor, which is covered in books.

“Jehan.” Grantaire nods. With a start, he realizes someone is in the back of the room. “And Combeferre,” Grantaire adds. “Nice to see both of you.”

“And you,” Combeferre says. “I’m happy to see you’re back in one piece.”

“Ah, you know me. Hard to like, harder to kill.” He turns directly to Jehan. “I’m glad to see you were acquitted quickly.”

“I heard I have you to thank for that,” Jehan says in that soft, understated way he has.

“You have me to thank for putting you in there in the first place.”

“It’s your fault someone attempted to murder you and the King falsely accused me?” Jehan says dryly.

“When you say it like that it sounds dumb,” Grantaire objects.

“When you say it any way it sounds dumb,” Combeferre buts in.

“You two are out to get me.”

“No,” Jehan laughs. “We’re really not.”

 

Two hours later, and Grantaire’s heading back to his own room, pleasantly humming from quietly sitting in Jehan’s study, reading his books on space and occasionally piping in with ideas for the new curriculum for the youngsters - which, apparently, is what Combeferre was there to discuss in the first place.

He makes it back to his room, which is blissfully empty. He had several near run ins with several foreign diplomats and royalty, and he’s glad to be in the safety of four walls.

He’s on his first glass of wine, vaguely wondering if Bossuet is still working and Joly still volunteering down at the stable when he hears a quiet knock.

“Enter,” he says.

“Grantaire?”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire greets him with a lazy salute. “What are you doing in my humble abode?”

He’s missed him, Grantaire realizes with a slight pang. It’s been about a week since they last saw each other, and he didn’t let himself get too caught up in the web of his own thinking, back at Eponine’s, but somewhere down there he did miss him, and he’s glad to see him now, in a pleasant, slightly wine-warmed way.

“Combeferre came to me and said you were back.” There’s a hint of disapproval in his voice, and Grantaire isn’t sure what he’s done to make it appear this time.

“Is there something wrong with me coming back?” he asks, and mentally decides to wait for the answer before letting himself be hurt.

“Of course not,” Enjolras all but snaps. Grantaire takes him in, for a second - he’s leaning up against the doorframe, looking far too attractive for Grantaire’s attention span, but he also seems slightly twitchy. “I just wish…” he continues, trailing off. Grantaire catches his eye and raises an eyebrow at him, silently asking him to continue. “I just sort of wish you came to me to say you were back.”

“Oh.” The thought didn’t even occur to him. “I suppose I figured—” He stops, furrowing his brow. “I don’t what I figured.”

“I just wanted to know that you’d come back,” Enjolras says.

“When I’d come back,” Grantaire corrects.

“Sure.”

“Well.” Grantaire gestures to himself. “I’m back here, in my sarcastic, 200 pound glory.”

Enjolras smiles, just slightly, and Grantaire wonders why he’s still standing in the damn doorway.

“You can come in, you know,” he offers, and that’s seemingly what it takes. Enjolras makes his way in, shutting the door behind him, and settles down on one of the chairs across from him.

“What are you doing in here, anyway?” Enjolras asks. “It’s barely evening.”

“There’s a lot of people out there,” Grantaire states. When he doesn’t add more, Enjolras just nods, taking it for the answer it is.

“How was—wherever you went?” Enjolras asks. His fingers are starting to dance on the table, fiddling with one another. Grantaire reaches over and pours him a glass of wine, and pushes it towards him. Enjolras grabs it gratefully, wrapping his hands around the stem.

“Boring,” Grantaire answers truthfully. “And how was here?”

“Not boring,” Enjolras says with surprising lack of mirth. “Half the servants want my opinion on all thing coronation and wedding, half don’t think they should waste my time asking, and how much I care about the question seems to be inversely correlated with what they ask me. And then there was trying to solve your attempted murder, which I was not doing well, and your coming back depended on it—” Enjolras drops his head into his hand, his hand flexing in the curls. Grantaire feels an irrational stab of longing. “And then there was the constant paranoia that it’d be me next, and Marius constantly wants to talk because he was given the Maester position with Jehan in jail, and I just—”

“What happens now with that?” Grantaire interrupts. Enjolras raises his head and looks at him with questioning, tired eyes. “Sorry for interrupting the self-deprecating pity talk, I know how fun those are, but I’m just curious - with Jehan back, was Marius booted from the position?”

“That’s between them to discuss,” Enjolras answers. “But I got the impression that Marius and Jehan won’t find it troublesome to work together.”

“Who will have the higher title?”

“I doubt they care.”

That’s most likely true, and Grantaire can’t help but feel a rise of affection for both of them - they’re both so unnecessarily, purposefully kind.

Grantaire finishes his own goblet of wine and immediately pours himself a second one, feeling only slightly bad about himself. Enjolras hasn’t touched his own.

“So,” he says, trying to think of a topic that’ll take the stress out of Enjolras’s eyes. “What reasoning did you give the small council for me being gone?”

“That you overslept,” Enjolras answers. That’s a lot simpler than Grantaire had thought. Some of it must bleed out onto his face, because Enjolras shrugs, and says, “It was only one meeting. They believed me.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Grantaire says, and means it. “I can’t say I missed being there.”

Enjolras hands visibly tighten around his goblet. He’s staring at the table like he’s trying to telepathically set it on fire. Grantaire feels slightly uneasy - if there’s anyone who could will a table on fire, it’s Enjolras.

“Can I ask you a question?” Enjolras says. It takes Grantaire a moment to realize he’s talking to him and not the table.

“You’re allowed.”

“Do you even want to be on the small council?” Enjolras asks, looking up. He still looks oh so somber. “Once I’m king, I can choose council members. I don’t have to pick you.”

Grantaire laughs awkwardly, more a cough. Hoping to buy a little bit of time to actually think about it, he says, “Once you’re king you can change anything, huh?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I can’t change you. And I just don’t want to force you to do anything against your will. Just be honest with me - do you want to or no?”

Grantaire finishes his wine and immediately pours another one. He takes a sip, one that’s probably too large to be qualified to be a sip, and then decides to go just go for broke. “Are you going to be angry if I say no?”

“No.”

“Are you going to be disappointed?”

“A little, but I’ll manage.”

Grantaire supposes he can live with that.

It’s been a long two weeks. A really, really, unbelievably long-ass two weeks. Grantaire downs the rest of his wine, enjoying the way it lightens up his muscles. As he reaches for the mostly-empty bottle, he hears Enjolras say, “You may want to stop drinking?”

Grantaire’s hand stills in mid air. He lowers it back to the table. “And why, pray tell, is that?”

By the look on Enjolras’s face, that should probably be obvious. “Because tomorrow is the rehearsal, and it’d probably be more pleasant sober.”

Grantaire snorts. “I beg to differ.”

“More pleasant sober than hungover, I mean.” _Eh_ , Grantaire thinks. “You shouldn’t let the wine go to your head.”

Grantaire makes a point of catching Enjolras’s eye, lifts the glass, and drains it one sip.

Enjolras watches him, face impassive, but Grantaire can almost see the curl of a smile on his lips.

“Is it just me,” Enjolras asks. “Or do you get some kind of thrill out of being this contrary to everyone?”

“I just like doing what I want.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes.

He looks tense and tired and oddly fragile, and Grantaire finds himself pushing the bottle towards Enjolras. It’s a bit of an empty gesture given Enjolras’s glass is still full.

“Drink up,” he says, pushing it into Enjolras’s hand.

“No thank you,” Enjolras responds.

“It’ll make you feel better.”

“Doubtful.”

“It’ll make me feel better?” Grantaire hedges. Enjolras raises his eyebrow.

“I bet you can’t do it.” Enjolras’s shoulder twitches slightly.

“I dare you to,” Grantaire tries.

 

“Was your wall always blue?” Enjolras asks. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, and he doesn’t seem to realize he’s pointing with a wine goblet in his hand and thus slightly pouring the wine out onto Grantaire’s floor.

Grantaire would stop him, but the floor is already stained, and it’s just too good a sight to put an early end to.

“Yes dear,” he answers patiently. “It was like that when I got here.”

“That’s—” Enjolras lowers his hand, and there goes the rest of the wine. “That’s weird. That’s—stragne. Stragne?”

“Strange,” Grantaire corrects. “Why would it be strange?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” Enjolras counters. He’s blinking deliberately it seems, and Grantaire almost wants to laugh at him.

“Well,” Grantaire starts. He continues on, letting his mind wander aloud, saying that blue is a decent default color for a small, intimate room, as it radiates peace and calmness since it’s reflective of the sky, but he’s really thinking about the fact that Enjolras is only on glass of wine 2.5, and his complete lack of tolerance is probably a thing he should have known before today.

A hand is gripping his shirt, and Grantaire stops mid-word, surprised. Enjolras has moved forward a few steps, his hand now on Grantaire’s shoulder, gripping tight.

“Sorry. Lost balance. What were you saying?” Enjolras asks, blinking slowly.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire responds honestly. “Probably bullshit. Do you need help?”

Enjolras suddenly pitches to the side slightly, like his feet somehow got crossed while literally standing.

“Woah there.” Grantaire reaches out a hand to steady him.

Enjolras blinks at him. “Woah,” he says slowly. “You’re really close.”

Grantaire huffs in genuine amusement. “Wow, you really can’t handle your alcohol, can you?”

“Don’t know.” He blinks once, long and hard, like he had to tell himself to do it. “I was fine but then I stood and now the world spins.”

“Yeah, it does that,” Grantaire responds. “You good?”

Enjolras looks at him. “No, you’re good.”

Grantaire blinks. “What?”

Enjolras pokes him in the chest, once. “You’re good,” he says, more insistently. “Sometimes I don’t think you know.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say to that, truly, so he just goes with, “You’re going to hate me in the morning.”

“I like to save my hate for,” a groan, “more productive things.”

“Let’s get you to bed,” Grantaire says, snaking an arm around his shoulders.

“Not till the wedding day.” Enjolras shakes his head. It takes a moment for Grantaire to gather his meaning, and, when he does, blushes despite himself.

“I meant to your bed.”

“Not mine. There’s stairs in the way,” Enjolras whines, and Grantaire’s reminded of the many hallways and several flights of stairs that separate their wings in the castle.

“Given this is all my fault,” Grantaire says, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “You can take my bed.”

“Don’t let Combeferre know,” Enjolras mumbles as Grantaire helps him sit down onto the bed. Enjolras flops to a laying position, curly hair splaying over his pillows. “He’ll make fun of me.”

“Why?” Grantaire laughs.

Enjolras doesn’t answer, eyes closed.

Grantaire shakes his head, somehow fond.

* * *

“Oh my gods, you sneaky bastard.”

Grantaire looks up from where he’s laying on the floor, slightly drunk and rather tired, and he finds Joly standing in the doorway, staring at where Enjolras is in his bed.

“Oh gods,” Grantaire says, resisting the urge to throw a pillow over his head and smother himself. “Nothing happened. I just got him drunk and he didn’t want to walk back.”

“Should I take this to mean you don’t need my help getting ready for bed tonight?” Joly asks, eyes dancing and smile really unable to be classified as kind.

“Fuck off,” Grantaire says, probably too loudly.

Grantaire has no idea how Joly can gleefully close a door, but he manages.

* * *

Grantaire’s woken from sleep by Enjolras’s shrill cry of, “Oh my gods, do you feel like this every day?”

He sits up, bleary, and looks at Enjolras, who’s sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands.

“Whatever you’re feeling, the answer is probably no.”

“I hate you so much,” Enjolras mumbles.

Hey, at least Grantaire was right about one thing.

* * *

Enjolras was right about one thing as well, though - the rehearsal would have been a lot easier sober than hungover.

* * *

He wakes the day of the wedding and coronation to a pillow to his head.

“Rise and shine, dearest,” he hears.

The birds are singing still, chirping away, blissfully unaware of the human events occurring right inside that stone barrier they can’t breach. It must be early.

He turns in bed, and blinks in surprise when his eyes focus. Joly is there - but Bossuet is as well.

“Morning,” Bossuet greets cheerfully.

“What,” Grantaire says eloquently, sitting up. He rubs his eyes, and a little crust comes off.

“I have to go back down to the stable to help out soon. But I’m here to say good luck and congratulations before your big day,” Bossuet says, answering the question Grantaire didn’t exactly ask, but definitely meant.

“Oh,” Grantaire says dumbly. “Thank you.”

Bossuet beams.

Grantaire throws his legs over the side of the bed, and he’s happy they don’t seem to wobble. He was up most of the night in anticipation, and he winces internally at the thought of making it through the entire day on only three hours sleep.

He stands, joints cracking.

“How long are you here for?”

“About three minutes longer,” Bossuet answers with a smile. “Long enough to hug you and maybe eat an orange.”

Joly has set up an actual breakfast this morning - crumpets and biscuits and sausage and fruit. It must be the special occasion.

Bossuet is true to his word, out the door within three minutes, but not without giving Grantaire a tight hug.

“I’ll look after Potato today,” he says. “And you look after yourself.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Grantaire says. Because it’s true - while this might be an important day to him, maybe _the_ important day to him, tomorrow is just the first day of a whole bunch more days - thousands of them - and most of those days will feature Bossuet, if Grantaire has a say in it.

“I’m happy for you,” Bossuet says sincerely. “Do me proud.”

Grantaire salutes him, stomach turning - it’s too early to be this emotional. “Order acknowledged, Knight.”

Bossuet salutes back and is out the door.

“Eat something, Grantaire,” Joly says. “Look, I even got you real food.”

“That’s something you should do every day, you know,” Grantaire says, picking up an apricot from the back. “I shouldn’t praise you for, you know, doing your job.”

“Oh well. Doesn’t matter anymore.”

Grantaire’s hands pause from where he’s opening the apricot. He raises an eyebrow. “Why, pray tell?”

Joly looks at him like he’s stupid. “Because you have to go to royal breakfasts from here on out?”

“Oh, fuck,” Grantaire says, sitting down on his bed. It’s odd - he’s suddenly remorseful he didn’t care more the last few breakfasts, treasure them for how precious they are to him, a few moments just for he and Joly to be together. He just let them slip by, like they were any old days.

“Eat up,” Joly says, patting him on the shoulder. “I have to have you in that suit and down to the throne room in less than an hour.”

* * *

The suit is still as beautiful as he remembers, though he doesn’t remember it itching slightly at the collar. It might just be his nerves, but he can’t stop poking at it.

“Stop fiddling with it,” Joly snaps. “It’s my responsibility that you don’t look rumpled.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, not meaning it.

They’re eleven steps further when Joly takes his elbow and stops him dead in the empty hall.

“Stop it,” he snaps. Grantaire blinks. He hadn’t been touching his collar.

Joly picks up his fist and, blankly, Grantaire can see he’s been scratching at his palms.

“Open,” Joly commands. Grantaire opens his fist, and even he can see the angry red lines.

“Look,” Joly says, grabbing his wrists and staring him right in the eye. “I get that you’re nervous. I get that it sucks that the wedding is so early in the morning and you don’t have time to emotionally prepare. I get that you’re frightened and it’s making you jittery. But you have to stop and be in control when you walk into that room.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Joly snaps. “This is a happy day where you get to do a great thing that’ll lead to a lot more great things.”

“What if I fuck it all up?”

“How would you do that?” Joly asks with scorn. “Even if you trip up the stairs, you can still say your vows. Even if you throw up on him, you can still be pronounced husband and husband. Even if you accidentally break your crown, it doesn’t invalidate the marriage. No matter what you do, short of killing yourself, this day is going to happen.”

“That,” Grantaire says, and finds his body stilling. “Was oddly reassuring.”

“Come on,” Joly says, tugging at his elbow. “I’m blamed if we’re late.”

* * *

Joly hands him off to another set of servants. He’s displeased to see that Joly’s escorted away, but not overly surprised.

He’s poked and prodded and generally fussed over in a way that makes him severely uncomfortable, and, with far too little time passing, he’s placed in front of the grand doors that open to the throne room, where he’s to be married.

“Now,” a servant says. “Everyone is already seated. The King and Queen were already on stage, and now Enjolras is being escorted through the other entrance so you won’t see each other today until we open this door. Once he’s up there, someone will knock on this door, and then you’ll go through. Walk up the aisle onto the stage, across from Enjolras. Easy peasy.”

“Easy peasy,” Grantaire repeats, but he’s really thinking about the last time he saw Enjolras. It was yesterday, when he was leaving dinner. Enjolras had been eating his dessert like a man paid to let it mold, and Grantaire got tired of waiting for him. He had patted him on the shoulder and said, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Enjolras had nodded with a smile and said, “tomorrow.”

And that was it. Grantaire had gotten up from his chair and left, not really thinking about how the next moment he saw him would be at the altar.

The door in front of him makes a noise, and, he realizes, someone is knocking on it from the inside.

“Ready?” the servant asks.

Grantaire’s mouth is too dry to respond.

The doors swing open.

There’s hundreds of people in the room, filling up almost every row. They are all standing, turned and facing him, and there’s just so many that he can’t quite pinpoint a singular noteable face. The stage is covered in flowers, front to back, red and white and purple and blue and yellow and pink, orchids and violets and roses and carnations and more, and Grantaire wonders where they all came from, given they’re not in season. There are white drapes all around, beautiful and hanging and delicate, and there are candles underneath that are making the room seem aglow.

The King and Queen are already on stage in the back, their dresswear as nice as Grantaire has ever seen. He’s too far back still to see their expressions, but he could always take a guess.

The priest is in a gold and white gown, and on his head is one of those pointy things Grantaire’s never learned the name of. An emblem hangs from his chest - apparently they are being married by a follower of the seven old gods, which Grantaire finds he doesn’t care about in the slightest. He’s an old man, over seventy, and looks like he may have already sampled the ceremonial wine.

And there, in front, is Enjolras.

He’s also in white, a similar piece to Grantaire’s, but far more ornate, and interlaced with the gold and red strands that Florin is so fond of. His hair has obviously been worked on - curly and soft and actually in one place, mostly, falling barely to his shoulders with more grace than Grantaire has seen since the original choosing ceremony. He realizes suddenly that Joly didn’t touch his own hair, and he has no idea what it looks like.

Grantaire steps up the steps, and comes to a halt across from Enjolras. He’s so much taller than him, he thinks dimly. Maybe he should go down a step.

And then Enjolras is grinning up at him, smile bright and eyes twinkling, and every thought flies from Grantaire’s brain.

“Hi,” Enjolras says with a smile.

“Hi,” Grantaire answers without thinking.

Enjolras’s smile brightens, and Grantaire promptly stops thinking about the hundreds of eyes on them. Enjolras takes his hand in his, and they turn in tandem to the priest.

Grantaire has impressive selective attention, he knows that. He gets to the priest saying “Marriage is what brings us together today,” before his mind starts to wander.

Oddly, he thinks of Guilder.

Guilder and its beautiful green hills. Guilder and its fields upon fields of wheat. Guilder’s pub that he used to frequent, all old wood and good ale. Guilder’s throne room, and how it faces the other direction. Guilder and his dad, backhanding him across the cheek because he couldn’t figure out a math problem. Guilder and the little servant boy who used to sneak him snacks during important events. Guilder and the portrait of his mother, the mother he never even got to meet. Guilder and the small cat that used to follow him on the training pitch. Guilder and his bedroom, with the blanket that had a hole in the end. Guilder and the day he became a knight, and the feeling that bounded in his chest. Guilder and the small council chamber that used to fill him with dread, and the members that used to ridicule him until he ridiculed himself. Guilder and the shattered mead mug that Joly broke when he heard they had to leave.

He feels someone squeeze his hand, and he snaps back to reality.

It’s Enjolras, because of course it’s Enjolras, they’ve been holding hands for the past half hour. Grantaire looks over at the priest quickly, suddenly terrified that he missed his cue for what to say. The priest is staring out at the crowd and saying something about their union being a ‘blessed arrangement,’ so he doesn’t think he’s missed anything important. He looks forward, straight at Enjolras, who had a sort of grin on that Grantaire just _knows_ means he noticed Grantaire’s consciousness was floating off into space.

“Now, Sir Grantaire of Guilder,” the priest says, turning to Grantaire. Ah, Enjolras must have been listening and known this was coming, and brought Grantaire back before he missed it. It’s considerate and kind and thoughtful and took Enjolras about 1.3 seconds to do, and Grantaire is deeply grateful. “Do you take unto thyself as husband the fair Prince Enjolras, and pledge unto him before the gods and these witnesses to be his protector, defender and sure resort, to honor and sustain him, in sickness and in health, in fair and in foul, with all thy worldly powers, to cherish and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” Grantaire answers. He’s feeling something - he’s not sure he could name it if pressured - just a big ball of _something_ has settled into his throat and lower stomach, warm and pressure and, gods, he never thought he’d say the words and get to mean them, at least not on the altar, and it suddenly strikes Grantaire that he’s lucky.

In a cruel, indifferent world where there is no reason behind tragedy, where people get fucked just for existing, a place where Grantaire takes good care not to believe in anything - there, in that place, he has found himself lucky.

The priest has repeated the vows to Enjolras, who nodded with an “I will” that was far too fast - the moment is over in a blink, Grantaire unable to take a second and savor the vows, and now the priest is fastening the three cords around their hands.

The three cords symbolize something, and he knows the priest is saying it - love, devotion, and unity, or something close to that rot - and tying their hands together with the cords that symbolize how “their lives are bound,” so the priest says.

Grantaire finds it unfunningly ironic that to finish the ceremony the priest must unbind the cords so they can walk off stage.

“May it be granted that what is done before the gods be not undone by man,” the priest says, and Enjolras makes a noise that is a cough obviously covering something. “I now pronounce you man and—” the priest stumbles in his words. “And man,” he finishes awkwardly.

The priest apparently isn’t going to follow that up with the perfunctory “you may now kiss to seal the marriage bond” that has slowly been coming into popularity.

Whatever - Grantaire has never needed a priest’s explicit permission before to do what he wanted.

He’s already facing Enjolras, who’s almost a foot shorter than him, gold hair glowing, smile real and there, eyes kind and satisfied, and Grantaire’s ready for this.

He leans in, and Enjolras meets him halfway.

There’s a polite smattering of applause, as if the crowd isn’t entirely sure whether this is something worthy of praise or not.

There is nothing exciting about the kiss except for the fact that it happened. They pull apart, and Grantaire reaches forward to take his hand. They turn and walk down the steps together.

* * *

There’s a meal before the coronation to give the servants time to transform the throne room from a wedding into a coronation ceremony.

As they walk in, a servant proclaims in a loud voice, “And, for the first time as a wedded pair, Prince Enjolras and Duke Grantaire.”

“Hey,” Grantaire says out of the corner of his mouth while bowing. “They finally got my title right.”

“You’re not a Duke officially until after the coronation,” Enjolras reminds him.

“Damn. You should have had Marius doing this,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras rolls his eyes.

They’re seated in their regular seats, to the right of the King, but for the first time in perhaps ever, the entire royal family is there in whole, as well as every top advisor. The table has been beautifully decorated, with lots of lace and fabric and flowers and things Grantaire doesn’t even know the name of but can appreciate with just his naked eye.

They sit and are fed the first course, which happens to be vegetable soup.

Grantaire stares at it, and he can feel the little him labeled ‘paranoia’ in the back of his head laughing, wheezing with unstoppable laughter.

He’s about ready to start contemplating actual choices of what to do - ask for a new one, not eat it, ‘accidentally’ spill it over, etc. - when Enjolras mildly picks up his bowl, moves it the side, puts his own bowl in its place, and then picks of Grantaire’s, picks up a spoon, and begins to eat from it.

Grantaire stares at the side of his head until Enjolras looks over at him. He smiles, just a little, and Grantaire can’t help it - he reaches over and grabs Enjolras’s hand, threading their fingers together, taking a moment to appreciate how small and slender Enjolras’s are to his thick and darker toned. Enjolras lets him hold it, squeezing back slightly, even though he has to pick up his spoon and eat his soup with his left hand. He stares at their interwoven hands and then around to see if anyone is looking. Not because he's embarrassed, but because he kind of wants someone to see.

No one is, at least not obviously. He looks back at Enjolras, who is mildly eating his soup with a single minded focus that’s impossible on anyone who’s not him. He’s just raising his spoon and eating, seemingly uncaring that he’s doing so with his non-dominant hand, and the utter acceptance of Grantaire’s affection has something rising in his chest and moving upwards, making him smile with a grin he couldn’t make go away even if he wanted to.

And he doesn’t want to, he decides. He knows it should be embarrassing, probably, smiling wide into the air at nothing - but he doesn’t care; he’s happy, and he’s going to be happy, he’s going to be happy where people can see, and that’s just the end of it. 

* * *

The guests have all been escorted back into the hall, and Enjolras and Grantaire are now outside the doors, waiting to be called in. The King and the Queen are already inside, officially relinquishing their crown. Having them come in afterwards is dramatic and unnecessary, and Grantaire feels oddly like a doll for a child - dressed up and pushed around and forced to act out scenarios that seem completely ridiculous when thought about for more than four seconds.

He just doesn’t _get_ why this much attention is necessary.

He’s chewing on his thumb unknowingly, staring at the wood doors in front of him blankly, and Enjolras shifts next to him.

He glances over, and Enjolras’s arms are crossed, and he’s staring at the door with a frown and amount of concentration Grantaire hasn’t seen on his face since he stabbed a hay bale.

In the next few minutes, Grantaire will be the second most powerful person in this country.

But also in the next few minutes, Enjolras will be the most powerful person in this country. And, unlike Grantaire, he seems to think the world won’t float if he doesn’t hold it up on his own shoulders.

“Are you ready to be king?” Grantaire asks suddenly.

Enjolras snaps back to attention. His hand clenches slightly. “I suppose.”

“Nervous?”

Enjolras tilts his head in acceptance, and Grantaire wonders what it cost him to admit that.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Grantaire says lightly. “The future turns into the present, and the present is usually fairly dull. Futures are always more discouraging than you anticipate.”

“Encouraging, Grantaire,” Enjolras deadpans.

“Hey,” he says seriously. Enjolras looks up, and, once again, Grantaire can’t believe he’s the one put in the position to listen to this man’s fears. He’s wholly inadequate. “Breathe. When you’re up there - just breathe. Let yourself be nervous for three seconds — but then just let it go. It’s always over before you think it’ll be.”

Enjolras accepts the advice with a graceful nod, and Grantaire has no idea if it fell on deaf ears, so he just silences himself.

There’s a slight knock on the door from the inside, and he knows that to be the signal. He and Enjolras straighten, moving shoulder to shoulder, heads up.

The grand doors open inwards.

It’s the same goddamn stage, but it’s been transformed; all the flowers are gone, every indication a wedding ceremony happened here has evaporated, and in its place are Florin’s grand velvet draperies, placed everywhere, and someone had brought in a massive marble table, one that is holding both their crowns - and, suddenly, Grantaire imagines the ten to twenty servants who had to spend the entire celebration clearing up their mess, and he hates this, so much, the endless stupid pomp and circumstance that holds no purpose except to glorify their means above others.

He chances a glance at Enjolras, who is staring at the podium with a single minded focus that, somehow, doesn’t appear to be trepidation.

It’s the beginning of his beginning, Grantaire realizes.

The crowd stands.

They walk down the aisle and up the steps together, shoulder to shoulder.

It feels strangely like make believe, like something he would have dreamt as a child with an overactive imagination. Him, next to an unearthly beautiful man, about ready to step onto a stage and take over as leaders, and be the voice of the next generation, be the hands of the first revolution.

It’s impossible and incredible and somehow real, and, as they turn to the priest, Grantaire, for the second time today, finds himself ready.

They’re asked to kneel, which they both do with a fair amount of grace.

He glances over at Enjolras. Enjolras isn’t looking at him - he’s looking ahead. Grantaire doesn’t look away, because he doesn’t want to and he sees no need to stare ahead at the shins of the priest. He sees Enjolras take a deep breath and let it out slowly. He seems to be mouthing something to himself - with a small amount of surprise, Grantaire realizes he’s counting to three.

His breath is gone, and the priest is moving.

Enjolras is crowned first, as is custom. Enjolras stays kneeling until Grantaire is crowned as well, which is not custom, and the small gesture makes something flutter inside his stomach. As the crown is placed on his head, he realizes it’s not the old Queen’s - which is tradition, Enjolras has his father’s - but is an entirely new crown, one that’s made for a male. He wonders who made it and who decided to make it and what they’ll do with the Queen’s, and decides he’s actually going to ask when he gets a moment. He bets that Combeferre knows.

They’re asked to stand. They do, slightly awkwardly.

“I present King Enjolras and Duke Grantaire, first of their names.”

Grantaire was actually named after his Grandfather, who also was a Duke, though admittedly probably a lower ranking one, but he’s not about to say anything, because the crowd is standing and chanting “Long Live the Kings,” and he feels slightly like he stumbled into a strange cult.

Enjolras reaches over and grasps his hand, squeezing it once, and Grantaire squeezes back. They head down the steps, and, remarkably, everything feels exactly the same as it did five minutes ago.

* * *

As tradition dictates, both he, Enjolras, the King, and the Queen all head outside where their horses await. Grantaire doesn’t recognize the servant holding Potato, but he hopes he sees Courfeyrac soon to compliment him - she looks lovely, glowing white and braided and clipped. He pats her on the nose twice before mounting, and they begin their ride into the city square.

They each have their assigned guard to ride in front of them. Grantaire grins at Bahorel, who smiles back widely and points to the bow and arrow on his back. Grantaire gives him a thumbs up, and he’s glad there’s at least one thing he’s done right since he’s shown up.

As they are set to begin, he realizes he doesn’t recognize Enjolras’s guard - he’s some brunette who is about two heads taller than Enjolras himself - and he comes to the realization that Enjolras has never once been guarded in the time he’s known him. He finds that he desperately wants to know why, especially given the small amount of grief Enjolras gave him over Bahorel, but he can’t, not right now, because Enjolras is two horses away from him, and he’s not about to shout over them.

They start, and he knows it can’t be true, but it seems most of the kingdom has showed up. They line the streets all the way to the the square - it’s only a mile and a half long, but, with the thousands of people gathered, it feels like a lifetime.

No one is cheering, but several people bow as he walks past with Potato, and he feels oddly uncomfortable with the whole thing. He tries waving, but the strange looks he gets in returns has his hand returning to Potato’s mane, uncomfortable. He once throws a small flower he accidentally pulled from her mane at a small boy on the sidelines, but the kid runs away, so Grantaire just accepts the fact that this is an awful tradition and sucks it up for the rest of the ride.

He’s glad when they return to the castle, and not least because there’s another meal. After the coronation, there’s a party of sorts, or the closest they get to in high society. He knows there’s food and dancing and it’s the last goddamn part of this day, which seems slightly never ending, even though it has been remarkably not awful as of yet.

They’re led back into the hall, and Grantaire’s hit with a flashback so strongly he almost recoils.

“What?” Enjolras asked, who of course noticed.

Grantaire turns to him with a bit of a grimace. “Just remember the last time there was a party here. I believe we got into a fight at that table—” he points over to where there is, again, a table, which appears to, again, have apricot tarts on it, “and in the middle of that dance floor,” he says, pointing to where there is now an empty space waiting, “and then I think you froze me into complete silence right over,” he squints, and then points, “there.”

“Ah,” Enjolras says. “Well - it could have been worse.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire laughs, and actually means it. “You know, it really could have.”

The whole crowd has already bowed and greeted them and are beginning to mill around, and Grantaire finds that he’s not actually sure what to do.

“Do you think they’d notice if we sneak off to our rooms?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras looks over, amusement bleeding all over his face. “Yes, I think they would.”

“Not that I’m running away,” Grantaire adds. “It’s just we were riding on horses for like, more than an hour, and I’m sure I smell, and it wasn’t exactly a clear path, and I didn’t even get a shower.” Enjolras gives him a considering look before reaching up and pulling a twig from his hair.

“I can see.”

“Great,” Grantaire deadpans.

“Would you like to dance, Grantaire?” Enjolras asks. “No one can dance until we do - it’s tradition. Plus, it’ll be the first time in history two married male rulers have in a coronation ceremony.”

“Great, let’s do this revolutionary thing while my white suit has a whole bunch of dust on it and I smell like horse hair and didn’t sleep last night, that’s what I want written down in history books.”

“Oh, my unwilling trailblazer,” Enjolras says, his eyes twinkling, and Grantaire is struck dumb.

He offers Grantaire his hand, and Grantaire lets himself be led to the middle of the ballroom.

Enjolras swings him around, so they are face to face, breath to breath.

“Do you want to lead?” Enjolras asks.

“I think you have that covered.”

Enjolras nods to him, and places his hand on Grantaire’s waist, and captures Grantaire’s other hand in his.

The few times Grantaire had imagined this, it all seemed so dream like - a disengagement from the mind and present self, like a moment of stopped time; the crowd disappearing to focus on just him and his loved one, locked eyes and locked hands, a focused stilted breath in the lungs of time, separated to give him a moment that befits the memory it should be, so it can stand alone in his head like a monument proclaiming “this is when it changed.”

But life is life, not his imagination, and he’s still present, along with the other hundreds of people looking at them, and Grantaire’s shoes are slightly small, and he feels slightly sweaty at the back of his knees, and he can’t decide how hard to hold Enjolras’s hand, and he can still hear the human noises of a servant dropping a platter to the ground, and someone coughing - and it’s all just too normal.

Enjolras nods behind him to the musicians.

The first note of the song plays, and Grantaire falls into the step of the waltz.

A moment later, he almost stops, blinking in surprise. He looks down at Enjolras, who is fighting a smile, watching Grantaire’s reaction.

“You remembered.”

“You seemed to like it when Jehan sung it. I asked him for the name, and got the music for our musicians.”

“At Florin’s marriage ceremony, you got the band to play the first song as a Guildarian song about the homeland?”

Enjolras nods, not bothering to fight the smile now.

“You’re my favorite,” Grantaire says, because he can now, he thinks, and Enjolras’s slight squeeze of his hand confirms it.

They are twirling around the room, passing the small council, and Grantaire’s distracted enough thinking about a member wanted murder him that he loses his footing slightly, tripping into Enjolras.

“Fuck,” he mutters, coloring. “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter, Grantaire.”

“I promise I’m not actually a shit dancer.”

“I know.”

They push past the musicians, and Grantaire knows he’s overthinking it - once he relaxes, his feet always fall into place.

“Relax,” Enjolras says. “There’s no one here you should care about impressing.”

 _There’s you,_ is Grantaire’s first thought.

Somehow, that’s the catalyst, though, and Grantaire relaxes, letting himself be pushed around by this man almost a foot shorter, a man whose smile is close to making him stumble again.

It’s been months, and he still finds him dazzling.

The song slows, coming to its ending point, and Enjolras take a step closer. “Happy wedding, husband,” Enjolras says.

“Happy coronation, King,” Grantaire responds.

Enjolras answers with a smile, and, after a brief hesitation, says, “You can kiss me now.”

Grantaire blinks, surprised.

“You don’t have to just because we’re married.”

“We’re married, Grantaire. I _get_ to.”

Grantaire nods, and Enjolras lets him close the distance, and something about the hesitation puts a lump in Grantaire’s throat.

He presses his lips to Enjolras’s shortly, and the last violin string comes to a halt.

He pulls back.

And this is closer to the moment that he wanted - the stopped clock. Looking back, he knows there’s motion around him, the world has continued to spin, but his brain has stopped accepting that stimulus, focused solely on Enjolras’s blue eyes.

The Hand of the King yells “Others may join on the floor, now,” and Grantaire flinches harshly, and Enjolras jumps several inches. Grantaire moves to step back, letting Enjolras go, but Enjolras keeps hold.

“One more,” he says, and Grantaire nods.

He notices others taking to the floor.

Cosette looks lovely in a gown of green velvet, and Marius close to dashing, though he seems to have lost his vest to the back of his chair. Neither seem to actually know how to dance, but somehow, that makes Grantaire smile all the more.

“Hey, look,” Enjolras says, and spins Grantaire so he’s facing the opposite side. It takes him a moment, but Grantaire notices Combeferre leading Courfeyrac to the outskirts of the dancers. His touch still seems so careful, and they’re far more reserved than any of the male/female couples, but the unrestrained affection on each other’s face tells the story that they seem to want to keep private.

Courfeyrac places a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder, and, even from the distance, Grantaire can see Combeferre smile.

“Good for them.”

He wonders briefly how Courfeyrac got out of stable duty for the day - but his intended is Combeferre, who is now the Hand of the King, so, Grantaire supposes, anything is possible.

“They’re pissing off my father,” Enjolras laughs. Grantaire turns them around again, and, lo and behold, the King is staring straight at Combeferre, eyes narrowed.

“Is he going to do anything?”

“Pointless, given that we just got married. Men can be together.”

“What about the class difference?”

“You have to remember that despite the high position I’ve given him, Combeferre doesn’t actually have any position by birthright.”

“I forget.”

“Everyone does. That’s what makes him dangerous.”

Grantaire lets his mind wander, taking in the sights.

It is, despite the stress of the last few days, a beautiful party. Under the candle flames’ glow, men and women dance and twirle like tree branches in a warm, stormy breeze.

“You know,” Enjolras says, bringing Grantaire out of his head. “This is it. This is the last coronation, ever, for Florin.”

“How do you feel?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras considers the question.

“Really damn satisfied,” he says with enough smugness that Grantaire actually laughs, out loud.

“Good, you should be,” he says, eyes dancing.

“You know,” Enjolras says again. His hand squirms slightly in Grantaire’s. “There’s something I was thinking about all that time you were gone.”

“Oh yeah?” Grantaire says. The song has shifted into something slightly soft, and their feet slow to compensate. Enjolras is meeting his gaze, nervous but serious, and Grantaire finds that there’s little in the world he cares about more than this conversation.

“Yes. I was thinking about how you said you loved me, back in that room. And you said I didn’t have to say it back. And I kept thinking about how if you were killed by soup or out on the road or if you didn’t come back, you’d never have heard it from me at all.”

Grantaire’s heart thumps, and he feels something fragile flicker in his chest.

Enjolras continues on, oblivious and determined.

“And I realize now that having this long preface might take away some of the feeling behind it—”

“It doesn’t,” Grantaire croaks, interrupting. “It really doesn’t.”

“Okay, good. Because I don’t know how to do this romantically. But, here you go.” A breath. “I love you. I don’t know when, I don’t know how much, but I know it’s enough, and I know it’s there.”

A moment passes where Grantaire can swear he’s dancing on a cloud, and then he feels Enjolras’s head drop onto his chest.

“Is it lame,” he says, voice muffled by Grantaire’s shirt. “That I feel proud I was able to say that out loud?”

“No,” Grantaire says immediately. “Not in the slightest.”

“You smell like a horse,” Enjolras says into his shirt, and Grantaire finds himself laughing - out of humor, out of elation, out of lightness.

* * *

Night is beginning to fall. People are starting to leave for their chambers, and the weight of the day is starting to get to Grantaire, all the emotions he’s felt for the past 12 hours suddenly exhausting instead of exhilarating him.

He’s mindlessly playing with this dessert, fork stabbing his cake randomly, when a hand falls on his shoulder, and he turns to see its owner.

“Cosette!” he greets, pleasantly surprised. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you,” she responds with a curtsey. “I was hoping to catch you sometime the week prior, but I was told you were a bit indisposed.” He has no idea what she’s been told. “And then today has been long and busy, and I just haven’t had a chance to properly talk. Marius is a bit tired—” she points to where Marius is indeed passed out in a chair, mouth slightly open. “So we’ll be heading back to our chamber in a moment, but I didn’t want to leave without saying congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says warmly, squeezing her hand. It’s so soft - she must use those creams Joly is always talking about. “I know it may not have been your choice, but I am glad you’ll be moving here and I’ll see more of you.”

“Us moving here is precisely why I haven’t accosted you all evening,” she says with a tinkling laugh. “And don’t worry about what we want. As being royal goes, forced relocation is not a bad hand to be dealt.”

“All the same,” he says.

“Marius is happy about the move - he’s always missed Florin.”

“But what about you?”

“Location doesn’t matter to me, not like it does Marius. I just want him to be happy, more than I ever wanted to be happy myself. And, at some time in your marriage, I hope you realize that making who you love happy makes you happy, in its own way.”

He squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back.

“My King,” she says, bowing her head to exit.

“My Lady,” he responds.

* * *

By the time they’re escorted back to their room, it’s late enough that darkness has completely fallen. He’s not sure if it’s tradition or Joly’s bullheadedness or someone’s thoughtfulness, but Joly’s the servant assigned to lead them back.

“Hey, Bud,” he says. Joly looks back over his shoulder, still walking forward, and Grantaire’s just certain he’s going to walk into a wall.

“Yes?”

“We’re going the wrong way.”

Joly raises an eyebrow, which looks odd given he’s still looking over his shoulder. He then rolls his eyes, and looks back front. And goddamn it, he didn’t even hit an arm into anything.

“I’m pretty sure I know the way to your quarters by this point, Grantaire.”

“My quarters?” Grantaire repeats blankly. “Aren’t we going to Enjolras’s?”

“I asked to move in with you instead of the other way,” Enjolras responds from next to him. He’s been oddly quiet since leaving the hall.

“Why?”

“You don’t have stairs leading to your room.”

Fair enough, Grantaire thinks.

They arrive at his door in minutes, and they stand in front of it, and, finally, the day seems to be heading towards its denouement.

Grantaire turns to Joly, who has his hands clasped behind his back and is currently bouncing on his toes.

“I missed you today, Joly,” he says. “I asked if you could be allowed to attend, but I didn’t see you.”

“I was allowed,” Joly answers, and Grantiare’s pleased to hear it. “I had to stand at the back with the servants, but I was there for all of it - the wedding, the coronation, the dancing.”

“Did you like it?” Grantaire asks, not knowing why.

“Yes, it was beautiful, I cried four times, it was all very emotional.” Grantaire laughs lightly, though Joly doesn’t, and he’s suddenly aware he was serious.

Grantaire steps forward and captures Joly in a hug, which Joly returns with more gusto than Grantaire would expect.

“Thanks for being here with me for all of this,” Grantaire whispers into his ear.

“I’m so proud of you,” Joly says into his ear. “And so happy for you.”

Grantaire squeezes him tighter, just a moment, and wills his eyes not to tear.

Joly pulls back, own eyes slightly wet, and takes a step back. With a bow, he turns to leave.

Grantaire takes an uneven breath, and heads into the room.

* * *

The large wooden door slams shut, the sound echoing inwards. The energetic, emotional air of the day immediately strains and thickens into a palpable tension that Grantaire swears he can feel clunk against his throat as he breathes in.

This is really the start of it all. The day was all pomp and circumstance and ceremony and rituals - but this, this is really the start. This is the first moment together that they’re going to put on repeat in their marriage, do every day, day in, day out. This is the start to the actual marriage part of the wedding day.

It’s slightly terrifying.

Grantaire leans up against the doorframe, eyes tracking Enjolras move to the other side of the room, towards the dresser of clothing.

Silently, he opens it, pulling out a dressing gown.

Toe on heel, one shoe pops off.

And the other.

Enjolras bends down, grabbing both shoes with one hand, holding them by their heels, and places them underneath the bed.

Grantaire averts his eyes as the shirt comes off, and he can hear the rustling that most likely means the trousers came with it. Turning away from Enjolras, he makes his way to what apparently was his side of the room.

Despite the situation, he can’t help but smile at the paper flowers still sitting on his dresser. He touches one softly, before opening the drawer to find his own bedclothes.

Apparently, now that he’s officially royalty, he deserves a silk nightgown, like a ceremony and a crown on his head actually means he’s changed in any significant way, like it means he’s not the same deadbeat he was twenty-four hours ago.

Despite the lunacy of it all, the silk does feel nice against his skin.

He takes a moment to wonder where he's supposed to put his crown. In the end, he just leaves it on his dresser - it's safer there than his nightstand, where he may hit it off in his sleep. 

He takes a purposeful deep breath, and turns.

Enjolras is sitting on the bed, eyes downcast, staring at his tangled fingers. Grantaire can only see the back of his head, his neck bowed in exhaustion, his long, curled hair curtaining around his face, hiding all expression, and Grantaire’s heart pounds.

The bed is only four paces away. Enjolras looks up when the bed moves from his weight. He stares, not quite smiling, and Grantaire returns the favor.

“Thank you for coming back,” he says quietly, and, to Grantaire’s dismay, none of the tension in the room fades with the breaking of silence.

It’s not fucking fair.

“Of course,” Grantaire says, making his voice flippant. It falls slightly flat even to his own ears.

The crickets are damn loud again, and Grantaire vaguely wonders when they’re all going to die off for the year.

“Well,” Enjolras starts. “How would you like to start this?”

“Start what? Marriage?”

“The consummation,” Enjolras states slowly, like it should be obvious, and Grantaire’s stomach bounces so fast he actually falls forward a few inches before catching himself. He stands, and, surprised, Enjolras follows.

“The what?” he demands.

“There is no way you didn’t know,” Enjolras says, staring at him. “It’s what comes after a marriage ceremony. Every marriage ceremony. You know it’s important for royals to consummate immediately.”

“Because of the pregnancy law,” Grantaire reminds him, heartbeat still slightly too high. “Which we don’t have to worry about, remember? Unless the gods got back to me about changing the laws of biology.”

“It validates the marriage.” His voice is softer, like he has to convince Grantaire rather than just let the paradigm shift sink in. “The marriage is not considered legal or finalized until the consummation.”

“I’m surprised you care about that,” Grantaire says honestly, and then immediately thinks, _shut up you idiot._ He, unsurprisingly, doesn’t shut up. “Since when have you cared about the law?”

“Since always?” Enjolras runs his hands through his hair, looking awkward. “I’m forced to abide by them – that’s the entire problem. This entire marriage has been in an effort to change laws. My efforts in the small council are to change them. Not to break them. While they are still in place, it is my duty as a citizen to abide by them, no matter how stupid or antiquated.”

“Stupid and antiquated?” Grantaire repeats. A pang runs through him - he thought he would have this for about fifteen seconds, and he’s still somehow severely disappointed.

“That probably came out wrong,” Enjolras says, wincing. “I think forcing us to do it is stupid and antiquated, but not the act itself. Though, I do want to make it clear, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”

“Don’t want to?” Grantaire repeats. “Of course I bloody well _want to._ ”

“Oh.” Enjolras blinks. His hands twitch by his sides. “Okay, then. I guess - I guess we can do that now, then.”

Grantaire’s suddenly glad he didn’t actually think this was possible before this moment, because the anticipation may have killed him.

“Are you ready?” Enjolras asks, hands still fidgeting at his side.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. He can feel his energy rising back up within him, and he resists the urge to bounce on his toes. “Uh, yes?”

“What?” Enjolras asks blankly. “Am I not supposed to ask?”

Grantaire furrows his brows, amused despite himself. “Have you ever heard of foreplay?” No response. “Or, build up, I guess I could say?”

“I get the meaning from context,” Enjolras answers. “So what, am I supposed to just like—” His hands twitch forward. “Grab you and kiss you or something? Or do we get on the bed first? Or do we take off our clothes first?”

Grantaire laughs despite himself, a little incredulously. “You do,” he says, taking a step towards Enjolras, who swallows visibly. “What feels natural.”

He hooks his arms around Enjolras’s neck and lets himself be drawn in by Enjolras’s magnetic presence, pulling him closer, chests touching. Enjolras’s hands come up and touch his waist, hesitantly.

Grantaire leans in and kisses him, pulling out his confidence from his past encounters, and lets his muscle memory do the work. He’s already done this twice with him now, but it still feels like a goddamn miracle.

Enjolras kisses back like he doesn’t know, but with his trademark enthusiasm, and Grantaire finds a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. He pushes himself further into this kiss, opening his mouth, and he can feel Enjolras’s breath hitch in his throat as he presses in deeper.

Enjolras’s hands don’t seem to know where they want to sit on his back, and there’s something slightly awkward about heatedly kissing someone while just standing, so Grantaire maneuvers them to the bed, only a few paces away. Enjolras stumbles slightly, but lets himself be pushed. They land on the bed with more grace than Grantaire has in the past, which he counts as a win, and then he pushes back into this kiss, hard, enough that Enjolras’s head is pressing back into the mattress, and Enjolras makes a little noise, and Grantaire sort of wants to catch it from the air and keep it in his nightstand.

Slowly, he moves one hand up to tangle in Enjolras’s hair, and one hand down lower, pulling himself out of his trousers. He’s half hard, and, by the feel of it, Enjolras is more of the way there, which seems like the second goddamn miracle that Grantaire’s not going to question.

He strokes Enjolras lightly over his sleeping pants, once, twice, three times, and Enjolras’s whole body goes stiff.

It takes a moment, but Grantaire realizes it might not be the good kind of stiff.

Enjolras is panting, slightly, his head tipped up, and eyes pressed shut.

Grantaire goes still. “Hey, hey.” Grantaire puts a palm on his face. “Look at me.”

He looks - tense. There’s no other word for it, Grantaire thinks. He looks tense.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asks.

“Could you maybe—” Enjolras looks up at the ceiling and visibly grits his teeth. “Maybe stop for just a minute?”

Grantaire immediately pulls back and moves to clamber off of him, but Enjolras’s hand on his arm stops him.

“You don’t have to go,” Enjolras says, sounding needlessly frustrated. Grantaire hesitantly settles back down on top of him, knees straddling his waist. “Just stop a moment.”

Enjolras is looking uncomfortable and ashamed, so Grantaire desperately tries to think of a topic to distract him.

“Have you ever thought about penises,” Grantaire asks, looking down at his own. Enjolras looks up at the ceiling and makes a _nnughh_ sound. “And how weird they look? I’ve had one attached to me since birth and I still think it’s goddamn weird. It’s a wonder that women will look at them at all.”

He tucks his back in with an affectionate pat.

“Uh huh,” Enjolras says, still staring up at the ceiling, looking a little pained.

“I mean, they look sort of like obese worms,” Grantaire says, and then immediately regrets it.

“I actually thought women had penises until I was almost twelve,” Enjolras admits.

Grantaire stills in place. “What?”

“I’d never seen a woman naked, and it’s not like they _tell_ you this stuff. I know some books have - information - but I’d never seeked them out. How was I supposed to know?”

“How did you find out?” Grantaire asks, sitting down from his kneeling position over him. He’s effectively sitting on Enjolras’s lap, but it’s more for comfort than it is sexual at the moment. Enjolras at least doesn’t seem bothered.

“I accidentally walked into a room where a couple of servants were having sex. I didn’t, you know, stay to _observe,_ but you notice things.”

“What happened then?” Grantaire asks, genuinely curious. He’s gone back soft, but he finds that he actually wants to hear more about Enjolras’s sexual education than get off. How about that.

“I was bright red for a day,” Enjolras laughs, finally looking down to catch Grantaire’s eye. There’s a lightness there that wasn’t there before. “But then I went and asked my mother.”

“How’d that go?”

“Extremely awkwardly. But she answered my questions nonetheless.”

“Huh.” Grantaire looks up thoughtfully. “Do you think women think that all men have what they have, and then are shocked by a penis?”

“I mean,” Enjolras says, looking over at him. His hair is splayed on the pillow. “Who wouldn’t be shocked? You’re right - they do look like thick worms. I don’t even want to touch one, and I have one.”

“You don’t want to touch one?” A thought strikes Grantaire, one he honestly cannot believe never went through his head before in all these months. “Are you even attracted to men?”

Enjolras shrugs, slightly stilted since he’s lying down. “I’m not _not_ attracted to men. I’m not _not_ attracted to women, either. I’m just - not particularly attracted _to_ either, I guess.”

“Huh,” Grantaire says for the second time. “Do you not want to have sex, then?”

“I mean.” He’s back at looking at the ceiling, and Grantaire finds it oddly frustrating - he wants to look him in the eye for this, to know he’s telling the truth. “I’m not against it. What you were doing before—” A blush. “That felt good. And I know it can feel really good with practice. But—”

“Do you want to go slower?” Grantaire asks.

He may never be a diplomat, but this is the one type of negotiation he doesn’t feel out of his depth in. And it’s one he, frankly, wants and needs to get right.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” Enjolras says, which Grantaire notes doesn’t answer the question.

“Hey.” Grantaire taps on his hipbone. Enjolras’s gaze stays on the ceiling, and Grantaire taps on it again, harder. “Hey.”

Finally, Enjolras looks down. His face is rather red.

“You’re not going to disappoint me. You’re here, in my bed. That by itself is something I’m excited about. The sex, whenever or if ever it comes, will just be extra. Like icing. I don’t need it, but it’ll be nice. But it’ll only be nice if we’re both enjoying it.”

“I can try—”

“Forcing yourself to enjoy it isn’t the same as enjoying it,” Grantaire shuts him down firmly. “And trust me, there is nothing less appealing than trying to have sex with someone who isn’t into it, even if they say it’s okay. It’s awful and wrong.” The only metaphor he can think of is trying to get a slippery fish off a fishing hook, which is a terrible metaphor even in his own head, so he shuts up, and just hopes Enjolras will believe him.

“If you’re sure?” Enjolras asks, biting his lip.

“‘Course,” Grantaire states. “We’ll tell them we had a night of fun, passionate love, and there is no way they’ll know the difference. Or an awkward night of fumbled handjobs and uncomfortable heavy breathing, it doesn’t matter to me. No one is in here – they won’t know.”

“Okay.” Enjolras lets out a breath, and his body relaxes. “To be clear,” he says, catching Grantaire’s eyes. “This is not a never. It’s a ‘this is going too fast so not right now’.”

“We can build to it,” Grantaire says, finding himself oddly excited at the prospect. “But for now - do you want me gone, or something?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, we still should sleep in the same bed. They may not notice if we do not partake in some…activities, but they’d surely notice if we didn’t lie together.”

“My husband,” Grantaire says with dramatics. He lets himself fall down onto the mattress with a large thump, landing naught an inch from where Enjolras is lying. “It’d be my honor.”

* * *

It’s early, far earlier than Grantaire would normally wake, and he wonders what pushed him out of dreamland.

A quick scan of the room shows that Enjolras has left, and it appears he’s on the balcony, given that he left the door open, which explains the cold atmosphere of early autumn air. He must have been out there for a while if it’s seeped into the room.

Grantaire sits up, holding the blanket around his shoulders.

He sits still in the quiet of the morning for a moment. He wonders briefly if he should let Enjolras be. He quickly decides against it - if their positions were reversed, he’d want to be followed.

He walks out to the balcony and takes a seat next to Enjolras, who barely looks up.

It’s a beautiful morning.

The sun is just beginning its ascent, and the pale blue of the sky is pushing the darkness of night higher with every passing moment. There’s a mist in the air, but it’s crisp instead of damp, and the rolling hills of the kingdom are verdant and full, not yet taken by winter’s grasp. Everything has a surreal glaze over it, like an artist who is still in the process of finishing the background of a painting, and somehow they have entered into it, watching the sun’s rays paint the picture of the morning, slowly sharpening the landscape. Grantaire can see the edges of the paddock from here, and he thinks he can see Horsie, standing still by the fence on the north pasture.

No one else is awake.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

Grantaire’s head snaps over. Enjolras is still staring ahead.

“Sorry? What for?”

“About the consummation.”

“You shouldn’t be. You were well within your rights to refuse.”

“Still.”

“Still nothing,” Grantaire says. Enjolras has this quality of voice, like if he says something with enough conviction he can simply will it into being truth, and Grantaire wishes he could borrow the skill. “Only when you want to.”

“Okay.” Enjolras finally looks over, and gives him a small smile. “Okay.”

“So,” Grantaire starts. “How does it feel? Your first full day as King of Florin?”

“Much like yesterday.”

“Funny how that works.”

Enjolras just raises his brows in acknowledgement. “It’s odd. I know I have far more responsibility now - I know it, but I don’t feel it.”

“Good,” Grantaire says. Enjolras gives him a face, and Grantaire wants to laugh. “It’s just - if you can have a moment when you don’t feel the weight of the world on your shoulders - take it. Take it and savor it, like it’s a rare fowl prepared in an endangered berry sauce.”

“You probably have a point,” Enjolras admits. Grantaire wants to congratulate himself, and then wants to slap his own head for being an idiot. “Especially given the dismantling of the monarchy. Once that begins—” He huffs. “Once we take that step, there’s no going back. It’s like a step off a cliff.”

“Bad metaphor,” Grantaire chastises lightly. Enjolras looks over to him, face so soft in the morning light. “That suggests that you’ll hit the ground, and it’ll be over. I think you’ll be going up.”

Enjolras smiles indulgently. “So, what metaphor should I be using then?”

“Well, shit, man, I don’t know, I’m not a goddamn poet, I’m a king.”

“Husband of one,” Enjolras says, knocking his shoulder. “You’re a duke.”

“Details,” Grantaire says, flipping his hand. He lets the moment pass, and then, “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“You have to promise not to get angry.”

Enjolras’ eyebrows lift, which is nowhere in the same realm as an agreement, but Grantaire takes it as one anyway.

“I know you don’t want to, and I’m not saying you should, but if you did keep the monarchy - you’d be the best king this land has ever had.”

Grantaire had thought that Enjolras’ response would be a long tirade about how essentially “monarchy bad, democracy good” - but instead he just looks down, hands twisting together. His jaw is clenched and he is blinking far too quickly, but he doesn’t look angry.

He looks up, catching Grantaire’s eye. “Thank you,” he says, in one of the more serious tones he’s ever heard him use. “I mean that.”

“Yeah, okay,” Grantaire responds. Enjolras still looks unsettled.

Enjolras searches his face, and it’s a testament of how far they’ve come that Grantaire doesn’t look away, just steadily holds his gaze until Enjolras has found what he was apparently looking for.

“I haven’t told anyone this,” Enjolras starts, before swallowing. “But I’ve thought a couple times. About not giving up my claim, and actually ruling.”

If he’s expecting some kind of censure from Grantaire, he’s not damned well going to get it.

“I sometimes feel like I could get more done as king. People already respect my power from the position. I could pass fair laws, restructure the system, get shit done - and I’d go down in history as a good ruler. They’d never think less of me because I didn’t throw over the establishment that gave me my place in society, that I didn’t go through with a secret revolution. History would atone me. And I could - and it wouldn’t even be bad. It would just be - I don’t know, okay. Not bad, just nothing revolutionary.”

“No,” Grantaire concedes. “But then it wouldn’t be you.”

Enjolras nods a little, a small smile now. “There’s always something that reminds me in those moments, and they never stay for long. I just know that a fairer world where choice dictates all decisions is better for everyone, I just know it. I know it has to change, and somehow, I was given the position to do it. It’d be a crime let a chance like that go to waste. I’m ready to start.”

“I’m more worried about the world being ready for you than you being ready for it,” Grantaire says. “People aren’t going to just accept a dramatic change over night, you know.”

“No,” Enjolras agrees. “No, but Combeferre has a plan laid out. We’re going to slowly take away the rules that govern society. First six months, we will take away the high-born rule for positions of leadership. In the next two years, we will stop appointments in the small council, and have the people elect them. I will be king for a little while - Combeferre thinks ten years, I’m pushing for five - until we can entirely phase me out. He has it all worked out. I could explain it in detail—”

“No thanks,” Grantaire interjects quickly.

“—But I don’t think you’d be interested,” Enjolras finishes.

Grantaire quirks a smile. “The highlights are just fine by me.”

“Do you have any specific questions?”

A lot, actually. But he’s tired, and the sun is rising, and the breeze is chilly, and his brain isn’t functioning at full speed, and Enjolras looks soft in the early rays, so he says the only thing that matters to him at the moment.

“What about the marriage law?” Enjolras straightens in surprise. “It’s buried within the choosing ceremony law, which I am sure will be one of the first to go.”

Enjolras hesitates far too long for him to not be choosing his words carefully. “That was one of the first planned to go.” Holding his breath is a cliche, but Grantaire can’t help but do it anyway. “That would mean that I would no longer _have_ to be married to rule.”

“Right,” Grantaire says, and he’s sure grief will hit, but he just feels hollow, like a stiff wind will blow him on his side.

“It does not, however, invalidate our marriage under the eyes of the law.”

“Does our lack of consummation?”

Enjolras looks away. “Technically, yes. However, I’m sure they already wrote in the books that it proceeded. Thus, in the eyes of the law, our marriage is legitimate.”

“Ah.”

“That does not mean you can’t go if you want to.” Grantaire looks up, eyes widening. Enjolras was still looking over the castle. “I can’t control you, Grantaire, and, more than anything, I don’t want to. I want you to make yourself happy. And once the law is dissolved - you can do that however you wish.”

“And what would make you happy?”

Enjolras lets out a long, unsteady breath. He’s still looking towards the horizon. “I want you here for as long as you want to be here.”

“As your husband or as a citizen?”

He finally looks away from the sun, eyes drifting towards Grantaire. He still looks solemn. When he speaks, his voice is uneven. “As your husband, if you’ll allow.”

It should feel bigger, the fact that, given the choice, path A and B, one with Grantaire and one without, after given the easiest out imaginable - Enjolras turns with divisive feet, head high and eyes open, and walks towards the one with Grantaire.

But it doesn’t feel much like anything, just a settled contentment that’s so pervasive that he’s actually almost choking on it, a lump in his throat that has him closing his eyes, pulling back the unbelievable happiness he isn’t even sure how to name.

Honestly, and Grantaire’s amazed just by the truth of it, Enjolras gave the answer he was expecting to hear.

Grantaire swallows. “Okay then.” He lays his head on Enjolras’ shoulder and threads their fingers together. Enjolras squeezes his hand, and presses a kiss to his temple - the message has been received.

The sun is rising in the East, its rays falling across the Earth, warming Grantaire. Silently, they both sit, watching the sun slowly make its way over the horizon. It’s early enough that the moon is still visible, parallel to the sun in the sky, there in perfect harmony.

He can feel Enjolras’s soft breaths, in and out. Their weights are holding each other up, and it’s been decades since he’s felt this at peace.

It’s morning, but it’s very early, and it’s very still.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s all, my friends! Please let me know what you thought - I hope you all enjoyed.
> 
> Also - I just want to take out a moment and say the comments on this fic are insane. Have you looked at the comment/kudo ratio? It’s almost 1:1. Even discounting commenting on multiple chapters/only one kudos per person, that’s insane. And, even not counting my replying comments, you all have made this one of the most commented on fics on AO3 for Les Mis. Just, what? Thank you all. The quantity and quality of responses has just been legitimately amazing and literally heartwarming, and the reason there’s an ending to this.
> 
> And, to anyone reading this in the future - HI! I hope you enjoyed! I still read comments if you want to poke your head in, but if not - HI! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Also, for you out there who have commented since the start - a special thank you for staying with me through it all. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want. It's been a pleasure.


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